The Night of the Wooly Death

[Double Take]

THE NIGHT OF THE WOOLY DEATH

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The flat landscape was white with surging bodies. The stampeding animals fled from the raucous shouts and gunshots that had disturbed their peaceful grazing. Three hundred strong, the frightened sheep bolted across the open plain, heedless of peril. The cowboys chasing them capitalized on their strong instinct to flock together. Once they were moving, the sheep became an unstoppable mass.

A deep ravine crossed the path of the sheep less than a mile ahead of the charging flock. The ravine’s steep sides plunged into a river; a river flowing faster and deeper than normal from the snow melting far up in the Rocky Mountains. The cowboys driving the sheep toward it knew that a few of the sheep might survive the plunge, but not many. Even if they did, their heavy, unshorn bodies would quickly become saturated and they would drown in the turbulent water.

The ranch hands did not look upon the sheep they were chasing as livestock; they were vermin. Worse than vermin...the damage that was done to the range by the wooly white creatures could take years to re-grow. After the sheep were done feeding in an area it was no longer any good as grazing land for the cattle belonging to their employer.

Their opinion of the men who tended the sheep was equally low. Nomadic for most of the year, many of the shepherds were Basque from the Pyrenees Mountains on the border of Spain and France or their descendents. They were foreigners, not true “Americans”. They dressed differently. They talked differently. They even had different customs. In the minds of the cowboys they were no better than the vermin they tended. So when their employer told them to dispose of the shepherd as well as his flock, they set to the task without any qualms.

“Make it look like an accident,” were their instructions. The four men who had been charged with the task knew there was more to the orders than just defending the range, but their deep rooted feelings toward the sheep farmers made the assignment all the easier to carry out. It didn’t matter that they were being well paid for their loyalty, murder was much easier to justify when prejudice and loathing were involved.

The four ranch hands had calmly ridden up to the shepherd’s simple camp situated near a small stream. The leader, Michael Jensen, and two of his men dismounted.

“Wait here,” Jensen said softly to Bart Mavis, a big man with a face that looked like it had been chiseled from granite by an inexperienced sculptor. Mavis remained on his horse waiting for the others to finish their task.

Antonio Silva greeted the approaching men with some trepidation, uncertain of their intentions. The shepherd had previously had a run in with some local cowboys in town a few months ago and was still leery. His slender little border collie, Jav, on the other hand, had no reservations and trotted up to greet the newcomers.

“Me ‘n the boys are out looking for our boss’ favorite horse. He spooked in the storm last night and kicked his way out of the corral. His tracks look like he came this way. You seen him? He’s a big chestnut” Michael Jensen asked the shepherd.

“Yeah, and he’s got four white stockings and a blaze. He’s bearing the Circle Y brand,” Campbell added.

While Michael Jensen and Tom Campbell distracted the shepherd, Billy slipped a rope around the friendly border collie’s neck and tried to drag the sheep dog toward a tree where he could tie her. The dog struggled and whined in protest. When Antonio turned to see what was upsetting his dog, Jensen brought the butt of his revolver down hard on the back of the shepherd’s head. Antonio Silva crumpled to the ground.

Bart Mavis smiled with satisfaction and urged his horse forward. Jensen and Campbell grabbed Silva by the arms and threw his inert body over the back of the big bay horse just behind the saddle. After they secured the body, Mavis set out with his burden for the mile distant ravine. Silva’s battered body would be located at the bottom of the ravine where it would appear that he had fallen to his death attempting to stop his panicked flock.

After giving Mavis sufficient time to reach the ravine, the three remaining cowboys remounted and rode a short way from the grazing flock. The men spread out and then charged back toward the sheep screaming like banshees and firing into the air. Within seconds the panicked sheep were charging toward their deaths, egged on by the horsemen.

Already agitated by the attack on her master, Jav whined and paced around the tree where she was tied. When her charges took off at a gallop, the lithe little dog flung herself against the tether that prevented her from pursuing the sheep. After a few unsuccessful attempts, she turned and set her sharp back teeth to the task of cutting through the thick cord. Within minutes she was free and a blurry black and white streak shot across the plain after the sheep.

***

Michael Jensen reined in his horse. He had heard something in the distance. Scanning the horizon he spotted black smoke pouring out of the smoke stack of an approaching steam engine with two cars in tow. Again the engine’s whistle screamed a warning.

Billy brought his sturdy quarter horse around in a tight circle, the animal almost pivoting on its rear legs. He grinned at Michael, “Think them sheep can derail a train? Maybe we should make ourselves scarce just in case.”

In response Michael put his fingers to his mouth and whistled sharply. The third member of his team turned and galloped back toward them.

“Come on, we don’t want to be spotted. That train’ll do some of the work for us, we’ll come back later and finish the job,” Michael said as he turned his mount and headed away from the train at a gallop.

None of the men saw the little border collie shoot behind them, running flat out with her wiry body low to the ground. Yard by yard the sheep dog gained on the panicked animals. Swinging wide around the stampeding sheep she took advantage of the clear area next to the railroad tracks to get ahead of her charges. Focused on the task at hand she did not react to the train approaching from her rear. Even the squeal of its brakes and sharp whistle did not faze her.

*****************************************************************************

Fortunately the two men aboard the train were sitting when the whistle sounded its warning moments before the engineer engaged the brakes. Grabbing their pistols, they stepped out of the back door onto the small platform. They spotted the cowboys fleeing the area, but they were too far away to identify. There was nothing the two men could do but watch as the wooly white bodies continued to run blindly on a collision course with the slowing train. A black and white streak passed below them and, as it did so, the approaching sheep started to slow, then veered off altogether.

James West and Artemus Gordon watched as the sheep dog paused in a low crouch as the mass of sheep finally came to a halt just short of the tracks. The Wanderer came to a jarring stop, its cowcatcher a few feet from the crouching dog. Wearing back and forth along the rails, the dog started moving the flock back the way it had come. Once they were moving at a trot, the dog fell in behind them, panting from the exertion.

Artemus shook his head, “That was no accident. Those cowboys were deliberately driving the sheep this way, but I don’t think they expected to encounter a train. What were they up to? Rustling you think?”

Jim West crossed to the other side of the platform and studied the landscape. Artemus joined him, shading his eyes with his hand. “There, see that dark line, Artie,” Jim pointed to a feature not far from the tracks. “If I remember correctly that’s a deep ravine. I think they were driving the sheep toward that.”

Artemus frowned and shook his head, “Pointlessly butchering animals like that is beyond me.”

Artemus Gordon instinctively gripped the rail as the train started to move again. Jim crossed the platform and watched the retreating sheep. The dog kept its charges moving at a steady pace.

“There have been reports of range wars between the cattlemen and sheep farmers in this area. I wonder if there’s any connection between this incident and the trouble Senator Gilmore is having? Colonel Richmond didn’t give us much in the way of information. Just that the senator’s in trouble and requested help,” Jim said as he headed back into the parlor car.

“We’ll find out soon enough, James. We should be at the siding near his house in a few minutes. I can’t imagine Senator Gilmore requesting help from the Secret Service over a range war, though. There’s got to be more to it,” Artie mused as he followed his partner inside.

A short time later the train came to a gentle stop. Jim pulled his teal jacket over a silken vest of blue and green. He grabbed his hat and gun belt and headed toward the stable car.

Jim looked up from saddling his spirited black horse when Artemus entered. A docile chestnut gelding nickered softly when his owner appeared knowing that a treat would be forthcoming. Like James West, Artemus had changed into a suit for their meeting with the senator. A dark brown ascot contrasted with his gold and brown patterned vest beneath a long-tailed taupe jacket.

Artemus pulled a small apple from his pocket and held it in his palm while the soft whiskered lips delicately picked up the morsel. The chestnut happily munched his apple. Jim put a hand on Blackjack’s bridle to steady him as the horse stamped and tossed his head. A second apple quieted Jim’s antsy mount.

Senator Gilmore’s spread was just a few miles outside of the town of Longmont. The siding where the agents left the train cut through his property not far from the house and its cluster of outbuildings. Close to the house were a barn and several large fenced pastures where the sheep were kept during the snowy Colorado winters.

It took the two Secret Service agents less than ten minutes to reach the senator’s house. As they approached they passed a fenced pasture where lambs frolicked along side their mothers. Soon the ewes and their offspring would join one of the other flocks grazing on public lands.

West and Gordon cantered up the drive to the main house and dismounted, tying their horses to the wrought iron hitching post in the grassy courtyard in front of the house. Jim noticed that the two-story house and buildings surrounding the courtyard were simple and practical in their design and layout. Everything was well built and in good repair. The house was that of a working man, not the ostentatious dwelling that Jim West normally associated with wealthy or important men.

The farm’s foreman, Herb Smith, appeared and greeted the two agents politely. He had been told to expect them and escort them to the house when they arrived. The creases in his weathered old face deepened as he frowned when he considered the two well-dressed men following him. Dandies! What can they do to help the senator? We need guns, not talk.

Senator Gilmore was halfway down the stairs when the butler opened the door and motioned for the men to enter. Smith nodded a greeting to the senator and returned to his duties.

“Mr. West. Mr. Gordon. Welcome. I’m relieved you were able to get here so quickly. When I asked the president for your assistance I was afraid that you would be tied up and things would escalate out of hand before you got here. Let’s go into the den and talk.” Senator Gilmore turned to his butler, “Henry, bring drinks for our guests.”

The house was comfortably furnished, well appointed but not elaborate. Gilmore led the agents to a small room, warmed by a fire and brightly lit by sunshine coming in through the two sets of French doors that led to a small garden. Shortly after everyone was seated, the butler appeared with brandy for the senator and his guests.

“Senator, a few miles from your house we witnessed three cowboys driving a flock of sheep toward a ravine. A sheep dog was able to stop the sheep. The cowboys took off when they saw us. Does this have anything to do with why we’re here?” Jim asked.

“Damn them!” the senator swore his face tight with barely controlled anger. “That would be Antonio Silva’s flock.”

The senator rose and paced the room. “I am not sure what’s going on, gentlemen. If this were a simple issue of grazing rights, I would never have asked the President for help. But something else is going on...and I don’t know what! We’ve grazed the land around here for the past few years with no problems from the cattle ranchers. For the most part, my men keep the sheep to the higher elevations. It’s rocky up there. Not as good for cattle. But then a few months ago, we found a dozen sheep dead at the bottom of a cliff. Like they had fallen off it. Then one of the shepherds’ camps was burned while he was away from it. It’s become steadily worse since then. My men are afraid of even going into the foothills now and are staying more to the plains.”

“Perhaps we should go have a talk with your man Silva,” Gordon suggested. “How far is his camp?”

“Not far at all, Mr. Gordon,” the senator answered. “In fact his son left a little while a go to take some food out to him. Antonio’s wife is my housekeeper. She and her son live here.”

As they rode, Senator Gilmore explained more fully about the range wars that had arisen in some areas between the sheep farmers and cattle ranchers. Both used public lands for grazing, but cattle and sheep cropped the grass to different lengths. When the sheep grazed the same area for a period of time they could eat the grass down to such a short length that the land was unsuitable for cattle until it had a chance to re-grow. On the other hand, sheep were less particular than cows and ate many of the plants normally left by the cattle. This prevented the less desirable plants from taking over, and actually improved the quality of the grazing land.

“Perhaps someday the cattle ranchers will see the benefits of sharing the range, but for now we do our best to avoid a confrontation. We have a right to use the public land the same as they do. Still, I’m convinced that something is going on in these mountains that has nothing to do with cattle and grazing rights. They’re hiding something and trying to make it look like a conflict over grazing rights,” the senator concluded.

“Who are ‘they’, Senator?” Artemus asked.

The senator shook his head, “I have my suspicions, but I would rather you come to your own conclusions.”

A couple of miles from the house, Senator Gilmore and the agents encountered Antonio’s young son riding back toward the ranch. The boy urged his sturdy little pony into a gallop as soon as he recognized the senator among the approaching men.

Carlos stopped his horse next to the senator. He couldn’t hide his fear when he spoke, “Sir, Senator, sir. I can’t find my papa. He’s not at his camp. Jav’s there with the sheep and they look bad. Done in. So’s Jav.”

The senator exchanged a worried glance with the two agents, but managed to hide his concern from the youngster, “You go on back to the ranch, Carlos. We’ll go check on everything and make sure your father is okay.” He smiled encouragingly at the boy.

Before Carlos rode off Jim stopped him, “Did you see anyone around? Anyone that shouldn’t be here?”

Carlos glanced at the senator before answering. “It’s okay, Carlos. This is Mr. West and Mr. Gordon. I asked them to come and help me find out what’s going on.”

Carlos nodded. “Not today, no,” the youth answered. “But I saw some men a couple of days ago coming down the trail from Helmet Peak when I brought papa some stuff.” The lad pointed toward a mountain with a blunt top a few miles to the west. Even from a distance its steep sides appeared rocky and uninviting.

Jim glanced at his partner, then returned his gaze to Carlos, “Were they cowboys, Carlos? One of them riding a palomino?”

Carlos’s eyes widened, “Yeah, how’d you know? There was another man with him though. He weren’t no cowboy. He dressed fancier, more like you and Senator Gilmore.”

“Could you describe him, Carlos?” Artemus asked the boy.

“Nah, he was too far away. I kept outta sight. Papa says to stay away from the cowboys. But I did see he had a beard, and the other guy, the one on the palomino, was leading a pack horse loaded with sacks.”

The senator reached over and patted the boy on the shoulder. “Thank you, Carlos. You’ve been a big help. We’ll go and see about your father. Have Mr. Smith send someone out this way to watch the sheep while we look for him,” Senator Gilmore said sending the youth on his way.

The three men continued toward Silva’s camp. As soon as Carlos Silva was out of earshot Jim broached the subject on all of their minds, “Have there been any direct attacks on your employees, Senator?”

Gilmore’s face was grim, “No, but I’ve seen that cowboy with the palomino before in town. We’ve exchanged words…more like veiled threats really. He works for Hiram Young who owns the Circle Y Ranch, one of the cattle ranches in the area. They never used to graze the herd up toward Helmet Peak until just recently. I can’t figure it. And what was the other man doing up there with him?”

Twenty minutes later the men arrived at Silva’s camp. As Carlos had said, Antonio was nowhere around. Some of the sheep were grazing as though nothing had happened, but others stood with their heads hanging low; a few were lying down and did not get up when the senator nudged them with his foot. Jav, the border collie Jim and Artie had seen in action earlier, lifted her head and wagged her plumed tail, but she, too, showed little enthusiasm.

Walking around the camp, Artemus spotted the chewed rope attached to a tree. Senator Gilmore walked over and picked up the severed rope. Artemus approached Jav and found the rest of the rope still around her neck. He removed the rope and held it up for the senator to see.

“Jim!” he called to his partner. “Senator, would Mr. Silva have any reason to tie the dog up?”

“No, Antonio would never do that. A herding dog needs to be free to do its job in case the sheep wander too far or bolt for some reason.”

Jim, still mounted on Blackjack, trotted over. He looked at the two sections of the rope the men were holding, “It fits with the tracks back there. The hoof prints indicate the men rode away from the flock, spread out and then wheeled around and galloped back toward the sheep. They must have tied the dog up so she couldn’t stop them or the sheep. They chased the sheep until they reached the tracks, then broke off when they saw the train.”

“You think we should check that ravine, Jim?” Artemus asked his partner. The two men had worked together long enough for them to know what the other was thinking. Artemus’s forehead furrowed with a frown and his lips were a tight line as he considered the shepherd’s possible fate.

“Yeah, Artie. I do. And I have a nasty suspicion that we may find Mr. Silva. We only saw three riders chasing the sheep, but the tracks by the stream indicate there were four riders altogether.”

They rode quickly following the path the sheep had taken toward the river. Once they crossed the railroad tracks they slowed their pace and spread out to look for the tracks of the fourth rider. Soon after they separated, Artemus hailed his partner and the senator.

“Looks like a single horseman making a beeline for the ravine,” he said when the other two joined him.

A few minutes later the three men were staring down into the ravine having left their horses a few yards back. The senator turned away, visibly upset at the sight of the broken body of a man who had been a loyal employee for several years.

“I am sorry, Senator,” Jim said to the older man then turned to his partner. “Artie, why don’t you return with the senator? I’d like to have a look around up there before it gets dark,” he pointed at the mountain that seemed to be the center of trouble.

Artemus nodded. He knew there was no point in arguing with James West once he had his mind set on something. Glancing back into the gorge he sighed, “I’ll help the senator make arrangements to retrieve the body.” He hesitated, “Be careful, James. Those cowboys have upped the ante!”

Jim just nodded as he swung aboard his black horse, “I’ll meet you back at the train. See what you can find out about Mr. Young or any strange goings on in the area.”

***

Blackjack stretched his legs into a brisk gallop at the urging of his rider. It was beautiful country, made for long rides and camping under the stars, but Jim West did not pay any attention to the scenery, instead he mulled over the events of the day and the senator’s tale. He slowed his horse as the trail began to climb, weaving around boulders and rocky outcroppings. The senator had described the area accurately; the side of the mountain was rocky and steep. Patches of grass grew interspersed with a few scraggly trees and low bushes, terrain better suited for sheep than cattle. Here and there West passed a few lean steers searching for grass.

The trail skirted around a small stand of scrubby oak and aspen. Jim decided to continue the climb on foot and led his horse into the thicket. He left him tied to a young oak bright green with new growth. Patting him on the neck, he left the horse and returned to the trail. Now he moved more cautiously, prepared to duck out of sight if he encountered anyone. Looking back, he was pleased to see that his horse was not visible, nor could he see more then a few hundred yards down the trail due to its twists and turns. He felt certain if anyone was on the trail, they would not have seen his approach up to this point.

Jim contemplated the well-worn path indicating the frequent passage of steel-shod hooves. Why would someone be coming up here often enough to wear a trail? If they were looking for gold, they would have remained in the valley. Jim was brought out of his musing by voices above him on the trail. He slipped behind an outcropping of rock and started creeping up the mountainside staying under cover. The going was much slower than on the trail, but after twenty minutes of climbing through the rough terrain, Jim found himself level with a large, flat shelf that stood out from the mountain like a porch. Two men lounged against the cliff face that reared almost straight up from the shelf. Three horses stood in a row lazily swishing their tails. As Jim watched, a third man suddenly appeared out of nowhere and Jim realized that the path must continue up the cliff face.

With his graying hair, Jim estimated that new arrival was well into his fifties, but still hale and strong. Judging from his clothes, Jim doubted that he was just a cowhand. He was dressed in a comfortable brown corduroy jacket over a tan vest; a gold puff tie adorned his neck.

“Come on. Let’s get moving. It’ll be almost dark by the time we get to the ranch. The next load won’t be ready ‘til the day after tomorrow,” the newcomer addressed the others. “Whitaker, you and Anderson’ll get the next load and bring supplies to Willis.”

The younger of the two men nodded as they headed for their horses. A few minutes later they disappeared around a bend in the trail, headed back down the mountain. Jim considered going after them, but his curiosity about what they were doing up here won out.

Moving quietly to the base of the cliff, he looked up; there was no visible path or hand-holds in the cliff face. Continuing along the cliff he spotted a bush that appeared out of place on the barren shelf. He pulled back the scrubby growth and found himself looking up a narrow cleft that angled up the cliff face creating a steep path barely wide enough for a man.

Cautiously, Jim followed the cut as it led deeper into the mountain face. The path looked like it had been created by a huge axe blade driven into the summit, splitting the worn crown. Jim was surprised when the high walls suddenly ended and he found himself looking into a shallow bowl several hundred yards across. Ringed by tumbled cliffs, it was completely open to the sky; the caldera of a long extinct volcano hidden from prying eyes by the almost inaccessible path.

West spotted movement and ducked back from the opening, letting the deep shadows of the rock walls hide him. Three men were tending to fields of poppy like flowers, cutting off the dried heads of spent flowers and tossing them into baskets. Along the southern rim were racks of drying seedpods. Nearby, the men had a rough camp set up. A small shack provided shelter, its sloped roof ending in gutter that emptied into a rain barrel.

As he leaned back against the rocks Jim noticed the warmth emanating from them as if they were giving off heat absorbed from the sun although they were completely in the shade, and had been for a number of hours. He also noticed that the growth of the flowers and other plants in the caldera seemed accelerated. Spring came much earlier to this hide-away than anywhere else in the mountains or valleys.

Still puzzling over what he had seen, Jim retraced his route back down the mountain. There’s got to be more going on then just dried seedpods. Catching up to and following the three men he had seen earlier might provide valuable information, so with little fear of meeting anyone, Jim quickly descended the trail. In short order he reached the stand of trees where he had left Blackjack and was soon mounted and making up the distance on his quarry.

When he spotted the men below him they were traveling at a leisurely trot having reached the easier terrain at the base of the low mountain. They chatted amongst themselves unconcerned about being followed, which made James West’s task that much simpler. He was able to hang back just far enough to keep them in sight whenever they crested one of the rolling hills.

Jim left his mount at the base of a low rise and climbed to the crest. The foothills were giving way to flat plains and Jim suspected the destination of the riders was fairly close. Lying flat, he pulled a collapsible telescope from his jacket pocket and observed the riders. The narrow trail had become a rough dirt track that in the distance fed into the main road which connected Longmont with Boulder to the south. He watched as the riders urged their horses into a brisk canter, their destination finally in sight.

Scanning to the right of the track, Jim observed a large ranch house and outbuildings. In many respects it was not far different from the senator’s spread except the house reflected its owner’s wealth with a portico supported by thick columns. A man was working to saddle break a young horse in a corral while a couple of cowhands watched. Everything seemed perfectly normal, but Jim’s curiosity was aroused and he was determined to check out the place in more detail once it got dark.

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[Double Take]

PT Langstrom dismounted and handed the reins to Whitaker who disappeared into the barn with both horses. He took a last drag on his cigarette before dropping the butt and grinding it into the soil with the heel of his boot. Turning away from the barn, Langstrom headed toward the main house. Although he would have preferred going straight to his hidden laboratory to check on his current distillation, he knew his employer, Hiram Young, expected a report first. And Hiram Young was not a patient man.

***

Hiram Young was a second generation rancher, born and raised on the Circle Y Ranch he had since inherited from his father. Growing up here he had explored the area, probing the secrets of the plains, foothills and nearby by mountains.

His curiosity included the plants native to the area, as well as the area’s geography. When he was a child, Hiram benefitted from old Bessie’s tutelage. She was cook, housekeeper and nanny, but the elderly woman’s wisdom extended beyond what could be gained from books. She, too, had been raised in the area and had learned much from the local Indians, absorbing their knowledge and herb lore. She happily passed this information on to the curious child. In fact, she was delighted and flattered to have such an attentive pupil. She taught him how to dry and prepare herbs for cooking and medicine... and warned him about which plants to avoid.

Years later when Hiram Young found himself the owner of a small but prosperous ranch, his former interests fell to the wayside. It wasn’t until after several of his cattle died from eating a rare flower that he renewed his interest in the local flora. He identified the plant from a specimen a ranch hand brought in when he reported the dead cattle. The steers had been found in close proximity to each other and the strange plant. It was then that Young remembered a tale old Bessie had told him of a powerful drink made from a poppy so rare it had not been seen for more than 50 years. She had described the plant in detail, and had even drawn a picture of it so her young charge would recognize it and avoid it.

Hiram Young’s curiosity was aroused after he identified the deadly plant as the poppy from Bessie’s pictures. He found several weak plants struggling to survive near the place where the steers had died. Though Bessie had been dead for many years, Hiram considered her warning, but the lure of harnessing the power of the plant overshadowed Bessie’s tale of its bizarre effects.

“Oh, it be bad stuff,” Bessie cautioned young Hiram. “It make men do things they never would do, not normally. I saw them once, at a party my old employer, Mr. Bender, was giving. They was joking around, and they crushed some of these poppy seeds and put it in Mr. Derrick’s drink. Well, that young man started acting crazy, doing whatever Mr. Bender told him to. They was all half-ways drunk, and Mr. Bender told him he could fly if he jumped from the roof. Well, Mr. Derrick, he tried. Near killed him. But Mr. Derrick, well, he never remembered how he got hurt so bad. And no one who was there told him neither. Me, I left Mr. Bender’s employ as quick as I could. I didn’t want him a doing that to me!”

A plan started forming in Hiram Young’s mind. He had been trying to figure out a way to force the growing number of sheep farmers to leave the area, perhaps even the territory. Ousting the foreigners, namely the Basque shepherds who owned or worked on the sheep farms, was a side benefit. Once gone, the area would be open to the expanding cattle ranches, especially his ranch. All of his ideas required money. More money than his small ranch brought in. He hoped with enough money, and the power it brought with it, he could gain political influence within the local government.

At first he was not sure exactly how he could use the mind altering poppy to further his plans, but he thought it worth pursuing. He needed two things: to grow the poppy in large enough quantities to be useful and a means of delivering it to the right people without anyone suspecting.

Although Hiram Young attempted to cultivate the rare poppy, he had little success. However, he knew that somewhere in the mountains more plants must exist, hidden from explorers and prospectors since it had not been found growing for so many years. Young recalled his wanderings as a youth, and suddenly, one day it struck him. He remembered an almost inaccessible trail that led to a hidden bowl on Helmet Peak. It didn’t take him long to confirm his suspicions and start tending the plants already thriving in the sheltered garden.

He soon realized he needed help to exploit the power of the poppy, and he knew the perfect man for the job, PT Langstrom. Young had met Langstrom over fifteen years before when he attended a small college back east. Professor Langstrom was teaching a botany class in which Hiram enrolled. He had recognized the young man’s interest and had tried to foster it, but Young had dropped out of school upon the death of his father to take up the reins of ranch. For a while Young had kept in close contact with his college professor, so he had heard when Langstrom fell on hard times.

During his college days, Hiram Young had learned that his favorite professor’s knowledge of plants extended beyond what he taught in a botany class. PT Langstrom had mastered the art of making wine, whiskey and beer from his father. This, combined with a degree in botany and another in chemistry, made him the perfect person to oversee the ambitious rancher’s new venture which he hoped would prove quite successful and profitable. It did not hurt that Hiram’s old professor needed money after having been dismissed from the college, at least partly due to his experiments in “improving” opium. Hiram Young hoped that with Langstrom’s assistance he could develop a means of gaining wealth without arousing anyone’s suspicions as to the source of the influence.

With PT Langstrom’s knowledge at work for him, Young’s fortune increased substantially, but the money did not give him the political clout he craved. It felt like an epiphany when he suddenly realized that the same method that he used to garner new wealth could also be used to directly gain political influence locally, and, perhaps, even with the governor. Why stop at controlling one territory? Why not the entire country? He now had the means; all he needed was time to execute his plans.

***

PT Langstrom found his employer in his study looking over his account book. Hiram Young was puffing on a carved pipe staring at the ledger with a smile. Ignoring PT’s presence he picked up a pen and dipped the nib in the ink well and added some new figures to the page. Only when he was finished did he set the pen down and look up at the gentleman who stood patiently waiting for his employer’s acknowledgement.

“Well?” Young rose and poured himself a drink, not bothering to offer one to the older man waiting to make his report. Fifteen years ago, it had been Langstrom who befriended Young. Now their situations were reversed, but where the college professor had wanted to nurture an inquisitive mind, Young preferred to dominate his employee.

“We’ll be ready to bottle tomorrow, and we should have enough seeds by then to immediately start up again,” Langstrom reported, gripping his hat in front of him with both hands and keeping his gaze lowered. It galled him to have to kowtow to Young, but the money was too good to pass up.

“How close are we to being ready to introduce our product to our prospective customers?” Young asked smiling like an alligator just before it grabs its prey and drags it under.

“The third case should be full by tomorrow evening. As soon as all the players are in place we will be ready.”

Hiram leaned back in his chair, taking a long pull on his pipe.

“Good, very good.” He turned his back on PT, effectively dismissing the man, and returned his attention to the ledger.

As soon as the door closed behind him Langstrom sighed with relief. As long as things went well, Hiram left him alone, but he knew that his employer had become ruthless with his desire to gain power. Young was sure to blame him if anything went wrong. PT Langstrom settled his hat back on his head and headed for the barn.

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Artemus Gordon described the location of Antonio Silva’s body to Herb Smith. The foreman’s craggy old face tightened with anger. He turned and spat at the ground, “Dirty scoundrels. I’d teach ‘em a lesson, only the senator won’t allow it. I knew it’d come to this. Young and his men are rotten, the whole lot of ‘em.”

Smith disappeared into the barn to round up some help and then headed toward the ravine with three men; two were on horseback while the third sat next to Smith in the buckboard. Artemus watched them go through the gate, the horses kicking up a cloud of dust as they broke into a trot. He headed up the steps to the veranda, but hesitated before entering the house. Through an open window he could hear a woman inside sobbing softly and young Carlos trying to be brave as he consoled her.

Artemus drew a deep breath and opened the front door. The butler stood just outside of the drawing room door waiting to do the senator’s bidding. When Artemus entered he motioned him into the senator’s den, “As soon as the senator comes out, I’ll tell him your here, Mr. Gordon. Can I get you anything?”

“Coffee would be nice, if it’s no trouble.”

The butler returned shortly accompanied by Senator Gilmore. They sat in silence for a few minutes sipping the hot coffee. Finally, Artemus broached the subject that had been bothering him since finding Silva’s body.

“Senator, you said earlier you thought there was more to this than a simple range war, and I have to agree. Making Silva’s murder look like an accident doesn’t make sense unless he saw something that he shouldn’t have. Have there been any strange occurrences in the area? Maybe something unrelated to your sheep herding operation?”

The senator thought for a few minutes. He prided himself on being a working man, a rancher, a man who was still in touch with his constituents. He frequently went into town to the popular saloons where he kept abreast of local gossip and happenings. When he had time he traveled to some of the other towns in the area keeping appraised of the events there, as well.

After considering the question for a few minutes the senator answered, “Over the last few months I have heard a few prospectors talking about selling their claims to someone in the area, but I am not sure who. Old Jeremiah Watkins had been working his mine for several years and then suddenly up and sold it. I asked him about it. Why he’d sold it. But he couldn’t give me a definitive answer. In fact he seemed puzzled about it, but there was never any question of wrong doing.”

“Was his mine close by? Could they be mining something of value other than gold or silver?” Artie asked.

“I haven’t heard any reports of anything else being mined, at least not in any great quantity. And Jeremiah’s mine was a few miles south of here. No where near where my sheep graze. No, Mr. Gordon, I doubt there’s a connection.”

Artemus rubbed his chin with his hand and pondered his next move. “Senator, I would like to talk to Mr. Watkins. Where can I find him?”

***

Early afternoon found Artemus Gordon tying up his horse in front of the Lucky Horseshoe Saloon in Longmont. According to Senator Gilmore, Jeremiah Watkins had been working as a handyman at the saloon since he sold his mine. The senator suspected that Jeremiah drank a fair amount of his pay.

The Lucky Horseshoe was one of the larger more prosperous watering holes in a town that supported a number of drinking establishments. It was bright and well maintained. A few gaming tables were tucked in a corner, but the room was dominated by a long, beautifully polished walnut bar. Gordon looked around as he entered. There were a few customers leaning against the bar chatting while they enjoyed their drinks. A buxom woman was carrying a tray of drinks toward a table where six men were engaged in a game of poker.

Artemus spotted the man he was looking for mending the railing of the staircase that led to the second floor. Jeremiah Watkins was a lean man in his late sixties with a scraggly beard; his graying hair was covered by a well worn cowboy hat.

He looked up when Artemus approached and pushed his hat back from his forehead. “You want something, mister?” he asked.

“Gordon, Artemus Gordon,” Artie replied extending his hand. “Mr. Watkins, I’m a friend of Senator Gilmore. I’m trying to help him with some problems he’s been having with attacks on his employees and sheep. He happened to mention that you recently sold your gold mine and I wondered if you could answer a couple of questions.”

Jeremiah frowned, puzzled by the request. “Don’t see no connection between my selling and the senator’s sheep, but the senator wouldn’t have sent you here iff’n he didn’t trust you. So ask away.”

The two men seated themselves at a table apart from the other customers. Artemus signaled for the pretty young saloon girl to bring them a couple of whiskeys. The agent sipped his drink, but Jeremiah down his in one swallow. He signaled for the saloon girl to refill his glass before she had even made it back to the bar.

“Mr. Watkins, can you tell me who bought your claim and why you decided to sell it.”

“Well, Mr. Gordon, I can’t rightly say why I sold it. It’s kinda fuzzy to me now, but at the time it made sense. I can’t recall the guy’s name neither, but he was working for someone else. The land office will have the records,” Jeremiah said with a frown.

“Had you been approached by this man before, or was this a spur of the moment type of deal?”

“Well, I was up at the Wooden Duck on the north side of town swappin’ tales with these cowboys who’d just come back from a cattle drive. Everybody knows ‘bout my mine, so’s I was doing some bragging. Then this fancy-dressed man comes up to me and offers me a drink. Wants to talk about mining and such. Just interested, you know. Talk to someone with experience.

So’s we were talkin’ and drinkin’. Whiskey, you know. Real good whiskey, not like the rotgut they normally serve at the Duck. And he says he knows someone who might like to buy my claim, but I should sleep on it and we’d work a deal in the mornin’. I guess he sweet talked me into it, but, like I said, at the time it all made perfect sense.”

Artemus listened in silence while Jeremiah related his story. When he finished his tale, Jeremiah sat shaking his head and staring into his drink. The story sparked Artemus’s curiosity and he probed for more information, “Not meaning to be indelicate, but you weren’t drunk when the papers were signed?”

“I was sober. Didn’t really have that much to drink the night before as I recall. But it was like everything he said made sense and I wanted to do the right thing, but now I can’t recall none of the reasons. I can’t do nothing about it, neither. Everything was done proper and legal. So’s I’m a workin’ here to keep a roof over my dang fool head!”

“Have you seen the man around since then?”

“Ya know, I could probably pass him on the street and never recognize him. All’s I recall was his fancy duds...and a beard. I’m pretty sure he had a beard.”

“Mr. Watkins, have you heard about any other prospectors selling their claims under similar circumstances?”

Jeremiah thought for a moment, staring up at the ceiling and tugging on his scrawny beard. He nodded his head slowly, “I never really thought about it before, but Scotty sold out a couple months back, and when I met up with him a few weeks later he still was cussin’ up one side and down the other for doing something so stupid. That’s Scot Samuels from Lyons. I remember him saying to me that he couldn’t understand himself selling to some fancy dude just because he served up good whiskey.”

A faint smile played across Gordon’s face when he considered this new piece of information. “Thank you, Mr. Watkins. I think you have provided me with some very valuable information,” he said shaking Jeremiah’s calloused hand.

“Well, iff’n you can do something about my claim, I’ll be indebted to ya,” Jeremiah said as he headed back to his work.

Artemus sat thinking about the old prospector’s tale for a couple of minutes, then tossing a few coins on the table he rose and headed back out into the afternoon sunshine. I wonder what James has dug up, and if there is any connection with the problems the senator has been having. Artie mounted his horse and headed back to the train.

When he arrived he found the varnish car empty. There was still an hour or two of light left so he wasn’t surprised that Jim hadn’t returned yet. He set about sketching out a disguise while he waited for his partner to return.

******************************************************************************

As soon as the sun started to set Jim led his horse over the crest of the hill, cutting across the open country until he reached a small wooded area that came within a hundred feet or so of the main barn. Keeping just within the trees he approached the ranch unobserved and left his horse ground tied while he moved in closer.

Jim watched as three men left the barn and headed for the main house. Soon afterward two more men emerged talking and laughing. In the fading light he could see that one of the men fit the description of the man Carlos had seen, a well dressed man with a thick dark beard and equally dark curly hair; the other was the grey-haired gentleman Jim had followed down from the mountain.

When there appeared to be no further activity, Jim moved cautiously toward the barn. Just inside the barn door he found a small lantern, which he lit, keeping the wick short to minimize its brightness. A quick check revealed nothing out of the ordinary, just sleepy horses, equipment and hay. Then Jim spotted a section of an empty stall that was walled off, making the stall much shorter than the rest. Its location corresponded to a stovepipe he had noticed emerging from the roof, an unusual item for a barn unless a ranch hand lived there. Jim entered the stall and placed his hand against the partition. It was warm to the touch. He dropped to his knees and he cleared away the thick layer of straw revealing wooden floorboards instead of dirt. Listening with his ear pressed to the floor he could detect no sound of activity from below. When he heard no voices or movement, he started searching for a hidden entrance to the lower level.

A cursory check of the stall revealed no evidence of recent activity. The depth of the straw precluded any possibility of a trapdoor. Jim left the stall and entered a small room adjacent to it. He breathed in the earthy aroma of grain mingled with the sweet smell of molasses. He checked several bins and found them well stocked with feed. He was just turning to leave when he noticed a shelf over the last grain bin held a lantern and matches. Curious, he touched the lantern and found it was still warm. Lifting the hinged lid of the grain bin revealed a set of stairs descending into darkness.

Jim turned a knob so the lantern glowed brighter, then swung his leg over the side of the bin. He immediately noticed the distinct odor of alcohol rising from the darkness. He peered into the inky blackness for a moment before creeping slowly down the first few steps. He reached up and pulled the grain bin’s lid closed. No answering light from below or voice greeted his cautious descent, which reassured him that he was alone.

Looking around as he reached the bottom of the stairs, West saw that he was in a fair-sized room that was a combination laboratory and distillery. Against the back wall was a wood burning furnace that provided the necessary heat for the elaborate still set up next to it. Stacked along the wall to his right were small shipping crates. One was still open and contained several half-pint flasks of an amber liquid. The other two walls of the room contained work benches. Beakers, test tubes, mortar and pestle, and various other pieces of equipment littered their surfaces.

Beneath one of the work benches Jim found a gunnysack and opened it. He wasn’t surprised to find it full of the dried seedpods he had seen being harvested in the mountains. He dropped one of the seedpods into his inside jacket pocket and continued his inspection of the room. The bottles in the open crate looked like they contained regular whiskey to him, but he suspected there was more to it than that. There had to be a connection between the whiskey and the flower heads. He carefully pried open one of the full crates and removed a bottle slipping it into his other inside pocket before replacing the slat. He thought the still operators would be less likely to notice a missing bottle if he took it from a sealed crate. I’ll let Artie have a go at these. Maybe he’s already discovered some information that will help us figure out what’s going on.

Satisfied, Jim headed back up the stairs. He paused before lifting the lid of the grain bin, listening for any sound of movement. Slowly he raised the lid and found himself looking down the barrel of a rifle. The bin lid was thrown open; Bart Mavis and Glen Whitaker grabbed West by his arms and dragged him out of the grain bin. Michael Jensen stepped back to give them room, but kept the rifle trained on the agent.

“Who the devil are you?” Jensen asked, not really expecting an answer.

“Safety inspector,” Jim replied cockily. “The fumes from that still down there could ignite and take this whole building with it!”

While he spoke Jim sized up the situation. He was facing two men in addition to the ones gripping his arms, but only Jensen had a gun in his hand. Jim took advantage of the leverage the cowhands holding his arms gave him and kicked Jensen hard in the stomach with both feet. Jensen staggered backward from the blow. Jim immediately twisted free of his two attackers, slugging the behemoth, Bart Mavis, in the jaw, sending the big man flying over the side of the open bin and down the steps. Whitaker slammed his fist into West’s mid-section and followed it up with a punch to the jaw. Jim staggered back knocking into Jensen who clipped him on the back of the head with the butt of his rifle. Jim fell to his knees, momentarily stunned by the blow. It was long enough for Whitaker and the fourth man, Billy Thompson, to grab Jim’s arms, pinning them behind him, and drag him out of the feed room. They kept the struggling agent off balance so he couldn’t get his feet under him.

Jensen followed them out into the main section of the barn. Behind him came Bart Mavis, battered, bruised, and as angry as an enraged bull. Jensen grabbed Jim’s revolver and stuck it through his belt.

“You won’t be needin’ this,” he said, then stepped to one side with a knowing grin as Mavis approached, glowering at the agent.

Jim lashed out with his right foot, but Mavis was ready and sidestepped while simultaneously driving his fist into Jim’s stomach. Jim felt as if he felt as if he had been kicked by a horse and struggled to breathe. He saw the fist come at his face and tried to turn away, but couldn’t do much while he was being held tightly. He forced himself to relax and roll with the punch to lessen its impact, but even so it was enough to bring down a curtain of blackness for a few seconds.

Jim was only vaguely aware of the next few punches that slammed into his body. He was still fighting to breathe. It seemed that every time he managed to draw a lung full of air, it was driven out by a blow to his ribs, stomach or chest. Finally the blackness that had been threatening to engulf him overtook the young agent and he went limp in his captors’ grip.

Whitaker and Thompson dropped West to the ground. Jensen searched him quickly, removing the flask and a small derringer from his jacket. He rolled the battered agent onto his stomach and tied his hands behind his back with a leather strap. He grabbed the collar of Jim’s jacket and started to pull him up as the two ranch hands grabbed West by the arms and hauled him to his feet.

Jensen shook his head. “Oh, you’re full of tricks,” he said as he removed the hidden knife from the back of Jim’s jacket. He slipped the blade under the agent’s chin tipping his head back. Jim managed to open his eyes, but did not react otherwise. “I’ll let Mr. Young decide what to do with you. Maybe he’ll let you sample our product... Whitaker, put him in the empty silo for now.”

Jim lay in the still blackness of the silo waiting for his ragged breathing to ease. There was only a faint gleam of light from a few small gaps between planks high above his head, but it wasn’t enough for him to see his surroundings. After a few minutes he started working on the leather strap that bound his wrists. He wasn’t going to be able to break it and the knot was firmly tied, but the leather stretched a little when he pulled. Lying on his side he worked his hands down and over his backside. The leather strap pulled tight as it stretched, cutting into his wrists. Slowly, he worked his hands down to his knees gritting his teeth from the pain in his wrists. Once his hands were behind his knees the going was easier and in less than two minutes he was cutting his bonds with the knife blade hidden in the toe of his boot. As he got to his feet his hand encountered his hat where one of the cowboys had tossed it.

He stood for a moment in the darkness rubbing his wrists to restore circulation before exploring his circular prison. Three steps and he located the wall; he trailed it with his fingers until he had completed a full circuit. Apart from the door, the interior of the silo at ground level had no openings. It was constructed from vertical wood planks nailed to a framework of stout beams.

Picking a place opposite the door, Jim leaned against the wall while he removed the heel from one boot and then the other. From the secret compartment hidden in each heel he took a small piece of an explosive clay-like material. He divided each piece into thirds and rolled them into long strands. He pressed the strands against three adjacent planks forming two rows about 3 feet apart. With the explosives in place he pulled a fuse from inside the crown of his hat, cut it into sections and connected the explosive strands together. After touching a match to the end of each fuse, Jim dashed across the silo and crouched down, protecting his head with his arms. A few seconds later the explosive blew out an opening large enough for the agent to climb through.

Jim whistled as he ran across the open space between the barn and the woods where he had left Blackjack. To his relief the horse met him halfway. Jim didn’t even wait for the black horse to slow down, he grabbed the reins and a handful of mane and leapt into the saddle, ignoring his protesting ribs. He heard angry shouts behind him as he urged the horse into a gallop. He continued to listen for sounds of pursuit, but if anyone tried to come after him, they were so far behind that they posed no danger.

Jim was thankful for the bright moonlight that permitted him to see the terrain well enough to keep Blackjack at a steady gallop until he was a safe distance from the Circle Y Ranch. He slowed the horse to a trot and reached forward to pat the sweat soaked neck. Before long they encountered the railroad tracks and followed them toward the Senator’s place and the waiting train.

******************************************************************************

[Double Take]

As darkness settled in, Artemus grew increasingly concerned about his absent partner. He assembled what he would need for his venture into Longmont the next day, then puttered around the train waiting for Jim to return. He checked on his horse before fixing a light meal, but he was too restless to eat. He paced from the table bearing his untouched meal to the rear door and back to the table again. After gazing out across the dark plain for perhaps the tenth time without any sign of his partner, he gave up on the idea of eating and returned his plate to the galley.

Artemus had just decided to ride over to the senator’s ranch and discuss forming a search party when the rear door opened and in walked James West. Jim threw his hat down on the desk and unbuckled his gun belt. Artemus immediately noticed Jim’s revolver was missing and the younger agent looked a little worse for wear.

The fact that Jim could look clean and neat even after a long day in the saddle had always amazed Artemus, but that wasn’t the case this time. Dried blood encrusted the corner of his mouth, dark streaks marred his clothes, and his movements were stiff as he stripped off his jacket.

“Looks like you met some new playmates,” Artie commented lightly. Though his partner’s face remained impassive, he could see the anger in Jim West’s green eyes. Not anger directed at Gordon, but at whoever West had encountered and had bested him. Artemus wrinkled his nose, “You smell like a barn. Why don’t you go and get cleaned up, I’ll take care of Blackjack. We can talk while we eat.”

A faint smile touched Jim’s lips as he looked down at his grimy clothes, “You got a point there.” He fished the dried seedpod out of his jacket pocket and tossed it to his partner, “See what you think of this.”

Artemus caught it deftly. He turned it over and shook it, listening to the tiny seeds rattle. “Looks like it’s in the poppy family.” He set it down on the desk by Jim’s hat. “I look at it more closely as soon as I’m done with your horse.”

Jim peeled off his offensive clothes and tossed them in the corner of his narrow quarters. They belong in the lab car, he thought. I don’t suppose the horses will mind the smell. Jim dipped a cloth into a basin of water and studied his reflection in the mirror. He cleaned the blood from his face and pressed the cool, soothing cloth against his abraded wrists. The dark bruise on his ribs looked ugly, and they were sore, but he was sure nothing was broken. He ran the wet cloth over his well-muscled chest and arms, wiping away the day’s sweat and grime.

He was just pulling on some clean clothes when he heard Artemus walk past his closed door. Jim grabbed a clean shirt and followed his friend into the parlor.

Artemus picked up the seed pod from the desk and turned to look at his partner. He frowned when he saw Jim’s ribs. “Your new friends play rough. You okay?”

Jim pulled on the shirt and started buttoning it. He smiled ruefully, “I’d like to say the other guys look worse, but they pretty much got the drop on me. The senator’s neighbors aren’t the friendliest folk I’ve met.”

“Neighbor’s in the mountains? Is that were this seed pod came from?” Artie asked as he pulled a microscope from a cabinet and carried it and the seedpod over to the table. He carefully broke open the pod and tipped its contents into a small tray.

Jim related the events including his capture by Hiram Young’s men and escape from the silo. Artemus looked up in surprise when Jim described the fields of flowers growing in the caldera of the extinct volcano. Jim continued his tale detailing the underground room with as many specifics as he could recall.

Artemus listened without interruption while he examined the seeds under the microscope. “I’m no botanist, but I am sure these are some kind of poppy seeds. Not from an opium poppy, I am reasonably sure of that.”

“There was a sack of those in the hidden lab,” Jim said pointing at the dried pod that Artemus was studying. “Think they’re using it to make the alcohol?”

“It’s a shame you couldn’t bring a bottle with you. I would be interested to see if it had any special properties.” Artemus pursed his lips as he considered the implications. “This may tie into the strange behavior of some prospectors in the area that the senator told me about. These prospectors sold their claims under mysterious circumstances. I visited with one fellow who described drinking whiskey with a well-dressed man who offered to buy his claim. From his description of the events, it sounded like he was affected by some kind of a drug that left him open to suggestions. Old Jeremiah Watkins agreed to sell his claim and signed the papers the next day. When I talked to him, he said he couldn’t remember why he’d sold it nor could he describe the man beyond the fact that he was well-dressed and possibly had a beard. But since everything was done nice and legal, Jeremiah couldn’t do anything about the sale. Jeremiah had also heard a similar story from another miner in the region. I’m willing to bet there’s a connection between your still and Jeremiah’s drinking partner!”

Satisfied that he could learn no more from the seeds, Artemus stowed the microscope back in the cabinet and headed for the galley. He returned a few minutes layer bearing plates of food. One more trip and he had the rest of the meal laid out on the table. Jim grabbed a decanter and a couple of glasses and joined his friend.

The two agents continued to discuss the case while they ate. “The well-dressed man could have been the one I saw coming out of the barn,” Jim speculated. “All Watkins could tell you was he had a beard?”

“He wasn’t even sure of that. It was as if he could remember only certain aspects of the event, but no specifics. If I am right about the drugged whiskey, then I suspect one of the side effects after it wears off is to affect the victim’s memory,” Artie retrieved a sketch pad and some papers from the desk. “I drew up a fake claim certificate. I’m going to ask the senator to talk to the clerk at the county land office tomorrow and get all the proper signatures. Then I think I might wander into town tomorrow afternoon and announce my find.” He handed Jim a sketch of his disguise.

“A cross between Mojave Mike and Aaron Addison. No one will recognize you with those whiskers,” Jim said with a smile. “And while you’re off looking for a fancy-dressed man with a bottle, I’m going to head back to the Circle Y Ranch. I would like to have a better look around. They’re producing more whiskey than necessary to drug a few miners. I want to find out what they’re doing with the rest of their stores.”

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Artemus sat at the table in the parlor in front of a round mirror on a stand. Beside him was a small case containing his makeup, spirit gum, rubber noses and an assortment of beards, mustaches and sideburns. A shaggy wig of nondescript grey-brown hair lay on the other side of him like a dead animal.

He was dressed in a pair of faded brown pants, stained and patched. The rest of his disguise was tossed over the back of the gold couch, a loose fitting, off-white cotton shirt, a well-worn leather vest and an old felt hat that matched his pants in color and stains.

Artemus leaned forward and peered in the mirror while he carefully positioned his mustache; his beard and bushy sideburns were already in place. Makeup had deepened the creases in his face and brow, making him look much older. Now his broad shoulders and bare arms appeared strong, not those of an old man. But clothes, make-up and a fake beard were only part of the disguise, the rest came from how he moved, talked and behaved. It was the little nuances that made Artemus Gordon so effective with his disguises.

The swinging door to the parlor opened and James West came in pulling on his blue corduroy jacket over a light blue shirt. He eyed the tired looking clothes laying on the couch, “You’ll look worse than I did last night in those.”

“Look worse maybe, but not smell,” Artemus replied, his reflection grinning at his partner.

It was mid afternoon and the two agents were making final preparations for their separate forays. They had spent most of the morning with the senator at his ranch discussing their plans and enlisting his help to get Artemus’ claim recorded with the necessary signatures. The senator was very willing to help, but was concerned about the safety of the President’s top agents. To him, it appeared that they were walking into a trap.

Before the two agents had left his place just before noon to return to the train, the senator expressed his concerns, “I will get the papers taken care of as you ask, but, gentlemen, are you sure about this plan? It seems to me a lot of things could go wrong. I could send some of my hands with you as back up,”

Artemus had shaken his head, “We are never sure about anything, Senator. That’s why we don’t make a more detailed plan than what we have done. Circumstances change when you’re in the field. You have to be prepared to change with them.”

The senator sighed, “Very well then. I will go into town and take care of the paperwork. I’ll drop it off at your train on my way back.”

“Thank you, Senator. You have been very helpful, sir. Jim and I will see you at the train later.”

***

Henry, Senator Gilmore’s butler, handled the reins as the two men drove into town in a small carriage. Henry stopped outside of the county land office and waited while the senator climbed out.

“You go on and pick up the supplies you need, Henry. We’ll meet at the Lucky Horseshoe.”

“Yes, sir. It shouldn’t take me but an hour to get what I need.” The butler clucked to the horse, giving him a light slap with the reins to get him moving.

Henry left the carriage outside of the general store, but did not enter. Instead he walked a couple of blocks down a side street stopping at a well-appointed house. The door was answered by a neatly dressed man with curly dark brown hair and beard, after a quick look around, he admitted Gilmore’s butler.

***

A sharp rap of knuckles on the back door made Artemus look up from dressing. He pulled on his shirt and tucked it in as he walked over to answer the door. He opened it to find Senator Gilmore on the platform, papers in hand. The carriage was parked just a few yards away with Henry waiting patiently at the reins.

“I am looking for Mr. Gordon,” the senator said, surprised that a stranger answered his knock.

Artemus Gordon smiled and bowed, “At your service, Senator. My disguise is effective then?”

The senator was taken aback, but after peering hard at the stranger, he was able to discern that under all those whiskers lurked the renowned federal agent.

“Yes, Mr. Gordon. I would say so,” he shook his head in bewilderment while he followed Artemus inside. “Here is the notice of location record for your claim. All properly signed and registered.”

Artemus took the paper and looked it over briefly. He picked up his faded leather vest from the couch and tucked the paper into the inside pocket, then slipped it on.

“What about Mr. West? Is he still intent on going over to Hiram’s place?”

“Yes, sir. In fact, Mr. West left a few minutes ago. We will fill you in on what we find out in the morning.”

“Good luck then.” The senator said extending his hand. Artemus returned the senator’s firm grip. With a last look at the disguised agent, Senator Gilmore shook his head, turned and left the train. He glanced back at the train as he climbed into the carriage and remarked, “Did you see Mr. Gordon’s disguise, Henry? I didn’t recognize the man at all until he spoke! Still, I hope those two men know what they are doing.”

“Did you not say they were the President’s best agents, sir?” Henry asked his employer as he encouraged the horse into a trot and headed toward the house. “I am sure they deserve their reputation and will be quite all right.”

***

Jim kept his horse at an easy canter along the road that led to Hiram Young’s Circle Y Ranch. A couple of miles from the ranch he slowed Blackjack and headed into the gently rolling hills bordering the road. It did not take him long to reach the rise where he had watched Young’s ranch the evening before. Leaving his horse at the foot of the hill, he lay on his stomach at the top and studied the ranch through a telescope. Everything was much the same as it had been on the previous day, ranch hands moved around the buildings performing chores and taking care of the livestock.

As Jim watched two well-dressed men exited the house and headed for the barn. One was the weathered older man Jim had followed down from the mountain; the other, he guessed, was Hiram Young based on the description the senator had given him.

Jim returned the telescope to his saddle bag and removed some items he thought he might need and slipped them into his jacket pocket. Leaving the horse tethered to a bush, Jim made his way cautiously across the open area to the woods. He kept low and used whatever cover he could find until he reached the woods that bordered the barn.

A cowboy trotted in from the main road and dismounted. He led his sweating mount to a water trough and let him drink before tying him to a hitching post. As soon as the man disappeared into the barn, Jim flitted across the open space between the barn and the house, dropping into a crouch behind a large rhododendron bush just as the cowhand reappeared with brushes and a rag and went to tend to his horse.

Jim was thankful for the well-planted garden surrounding the house. He was able to remain unobserved as he worked his way around to the rear. He decided entering on the ground floor was too risky, there could well be servants tending to their duties. A second floor entry would allow him to search the less frequented portions of the house before tackling the main floor. Although he was not entirely sure what he was looking for, he felt confident that there would be some evidence as to what Hiram Young intended on doing with his considerable stock of homemade whiskey.

A large oak tree had been planted many years ago to shade a patio on the backside of the house. A curved bench encircled its trunk and an old knotted rope dangled from an overhead limb. It had provided shelter for the family members wanting to read under the coolness of its leafy shade and acted as a playground for the children as they grew. It had grown over the years until its stout limbs extended over the roof.

Jim studied the second floor windows and spotted one that was partially open. Directly above the window was a strong branch. Checking to first make sure no one was around he stepped over to the dangling rope and tested his weight on it. Despite its age it held, allowing Jim to climb up its length to a limb fifteen feet off the ground.

He sat straddling the thick branch looking up into the tree planning his route when the door to the patio opened. Jim swung his legs up and lay along the length of the limb, barely daring to breathe as a woman emerged from the house and stopped directly below him. She shook a small rug vigorously creating a dust cloud that enveloped the motionless agent. Jim held his breath while his eyes watered and he struggled not to sneeze. He was relieved when the maid finally returned to the house.

He crept along the limb to the trunk and then stood up steadying himself with one hand on the trunk. The next branch was just a few inches over his head, so Jim grabbed it and pulled himself up. He paused for a moment while he studied his next move. He climbed to his feet and then leapt for the next branch, which was at shoulder height but four feet out from his perch. Jim grabbed the branch and allowed the momentum of his swing to carry him to his destination, a sturdy branch some three feet beyond that. He hooked his knees over it and pulled himself up so he straddled the branch. He scooted along its length until he was directly over the second floor window.

Jim pulled a length of strong but slender rope from his jacket pocket and tied it to the branch. He slowly lowered himself until he was even with the open window. He raised the partially open window a little more and slipped inside. Jim found himself in what he assumed was Young’s bedroom. A large, heavy oak-framed bed dominated the room. Jim crossed to a roll-topped desk opposite the window and raised the cover. He quickly riffled through the papers, but found nothing other than personal correspondence. A check of the draws also proved uninteresting.

Jim headed for the door to continue his search of the house. As he reached for the knob, it started to turn and the door opened, forcing him to duck back against the wall so the door itself shielded him from the person entering. Jim watched unobserved as the housekeeper he had seen earlier returned the small rug to its place beside the bed. She quickly glanced around to make sure everything was tidy for her employer and then left, never noticing the agent hiding behind the door.

***

Artemus rode into town on an ancient mare he had borrowed from the senator, complete with a saddle and bridle so badly worn they looked like they would disintegrate at any moment. Artemus felt a little sorry for the sway-backed bay mare who had been living out her later years in peaceful retirement on the senator’s farm. But he needed a horse that matched his disguise and his chestnut gelding was just too sleek and sassy to be the horse of a tired old prospector.

Before heading for the saloon, Artemus paid a visit to the general store. He tied the old mare to the hitching post and gave her a pat on the neck. The store was cluttered with all kinds of goods. Artie had to turn sideways to slip between sacks of flour, rice and cornmeal piled up on the floor. Tools shared counter space with bolts of cloth; lanterns, smoked hams, and strings of onions hung from the ceiling. Every square inch of available space seemed to be filled with items needed for everyday living.

Artie gathered some supplies and dumped them down on the counter before the clerk. He scratched at his fake beard and grinned widely at the young clerk, “Ya got some of those fancy Cuban cigars, friend? I’m in a mood to celebrate.”

“Yes, sir, we have several varieties,” the clerk responded giving the ragged prospector a dubious look while he pulled out several small boxes from below the counter.

Artemus picked out a fat cigar from a box and sniffed it appreciatively, “Ah, heaven. I’ll take the box.”

Still doubtful of the prospector’s ability to pay, the clerk counted the cigars in the box and added it to the rest of the tally. His eyes widened when Artemus handed him a shiny five-dollar gold piece.

“It’s gonna be the good life for me, lad. My years wandering these parts is finally paying off big. It’ll be ‘Yes, Mr. Conner.’ ‘What can I do for you, Mr. Conner?’ No more sleeping in barns and scrounging for a bite. I might even get me a room at the hotel and take me a bath once in a while!” Artemus said as he gathered up his supplies. “You can keep the change, son. Buy yourself one of them cigars!”

Artemus swaggered out of the store and stuffed all his supplies in the decrepit saddlebags except the cigars, which he stowed in a vest pocket. He frowned when a few stitches on the saddlebag gave way, but it held together, nonetheless. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the store clerk slipping out through a side door and heading down the side street. Could be coincidence, he thought to himself with a smile, or not. Grabbing the mare’s reins he ambled down the street, the old mare plodding patiently behind him. Now to the livery stable and finish laying the bait.

A stable boy came out as soon as Artemus approached. He was in his early teens with curly blond hair reaching almost to his shirt collar. He chewed on a piece of straw as he sized up the ratty old prospector and his horse. The youth approached but did not offer to take the horse from the disreputable looking man.

“My boss don’t give no handouts. Not to you, not to your horse. You want to stable her, you got to pay. But you can’t sleep here neither ways.”

“Young man, you are looking at the wealthiest man in this here territory. Well, soon-to-be wealthiest man. And I won’t put ol’ Maesy up just anywhere. I expect her to be treated like a queen!” the old prospector replied stroking the mare’s neck. She responded by nudging him with her nose. Artie had started with a pocketful of little apples, which Maesy was happily working her way through.

“Let me see your money first,” the lad challenged the old man. He had gotten into trouble a few weeks before when a saddle tramp had snuck away without paying for his horse’s board.

Snorting in annoyance, Artemus pulled a small change purse from vest pocket and fished out a few coins.

“That satisfy you, boy?” he asked tossing one of the coins to the youth.

“The name’s Skeeter. And, yeah, that’ll satisfy me.” The stable boy deftly caught the spinning coin and, grinning, took the reins from the prospector. He led the mare into the stable followed closely by Artemus.

“Your boss got any good horses for sale, Skeeter? I want something befitting a gentleman of my standings. But well-mannered and dependable.”

Skeeter nodded towards a handsome bay gelding a couple of stalls down while he unsaddled Maesy. “That ones a nice horse. Sound, and gentle as well. Mr. Weeks might have one or two others he would be willing to sell, but he won’t buy your old mare if that’s what you is thinking.”

“No, lad. No, I wouldn’t sell Maesy. Once my mine starts paying off big, I’m going to build me a house with a barn for ol’ Maesy. She’s been with me through thick and thin. I won’t part with her now just ‘cause she’s getting a little long in the tooth.” He entered the bay’s stall, giving the mahogany brown rump a pat. He made a show of looking over the animal, picking up its feet and looking at its teeth. “I’ll be over at the Wooden Duck if your boss wants to talk a deal for this here horse.”

***

Artemus Gordon pushed through the swinging door and entered the dim interior of the Wooden Duck. The dust encrusted windows filtered the bright sunlight down to dim shafts that seemed to highlight the slow decay of the saloon. The Wooden Duck had none of the polish and glitz of its cross-town counterpart, the Lucky Horseshoe, which Gordon had visited the day before. About the only things they had in common were a long bar, an on-going poker game and a smattering of glassy-eyed patrons. Even the dresses of the saloon girls were faded and slightly out-dated. The Wooden Duck was primarily the hang out of the area’s less well-appointed social set; cowboys, prospectors, laborers and the occasional drifter frequented the aging establishment.

The old prospector was as faded and graying as the saloon and could have blended into the background if that had been his goal. Instead, Artemus swaggered up to the bar and announced he was buying drinks for everyone. He wanted to draw attention to himself, primarily the attention of a well-dressed man with a dark beard and a bottle of very special whiskey. Gordon received a half-hearted cheer from several of the occupants who flagged down the serving girl and took advantage of the opportunity for a free drink.

Artemus leaned back against the bar casually surveying the patrons. Nobody matched the description of the man he was hoping to meet, but it was early yet. Still got plenty of time for the man to make his move if he’s going to.

“If you’re buying drinks, I want to see the money up front,” the barkeeper said warily to the prospector as he poured several shots of whiskey and handed the laden tray to the waiting girl. “I’m not footing the bill for this lot.”

As the saloon girl made her way toward the poker game, Artemus dug a coin out of his pocket and flipped it over his shoulder. The barkeep caught it and eyed it suspiciously for a few seconds before turning away with a grunt of acknowledgement. He disappeared into a backroom for a minute.

When he returned he was all smiles, “What can I get you, mister?”

“Beer for now. I think I might join that poker game.” He picked up his mug and took a swallow. He wiped the foam from his mustache and wandered over to the table where five men were studying their cards and each other. He glanced out of the grimy window and spotted a young man hurrying down the road toward the general store still wearing his apron. My bearded friend must live somewhere down that side street. Hopefully, he will pay me a visit soon.

Artemus was still waiting for the current hand to finish when the saloon door swung open to admit a well-dressed gentleman. The man hesitated for a moment in the entranceway waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He stood in stark contrast to the shabby saloon. From head to toe, his bearing and clothes were that of a fine gentleman. His vest was a deep red shot through with gold; his finely tailored jacket a slightly lighter shade of red, while his silk puff tie was gold.

Once he spotted his mark, Simon Glendower made no pretense of being there for any other reason. He walked purposefully toward the disguised agent and greeted him warmly as though they were old friends.

“Mr. Connor, a great pleasure to meet you, sir!” Glendower effused grasping Artemus’ hand in a hearty shake. “I am Simon Glendower, attorney. I always make it a point to greet and offer my services to prospectors. Even if you don’t need my services at this time, I feel that there is always something I can learn from a successful man, and that may help me in the future to serve my clients.”

Glendower guided Gordon to a table against the wall as far from the rest of the patrons as he could manage. He snapped his fingers signaling the bartender to bring a bottle and glasses.

“You’re mighty generous, Mr. Glendower. I don’t knows that I need no legal advice. My claim’s filed right and proper, but I’d be happy to hear what you gots to say. And, who knows, maybe I can pass somethin’ on to you that’d help someone else.”

Artemus watched out of the corner of his eye as the bartender took a bottle from below the counter, the same style half-pint flask as Jim had described, and brought it and a glass over to the table. He also brought a glass of red wine which he set down in front of the attorney. Simon poured a healthy shot of whiskey into the glass and pushed it toward his mark, “Unfortunately, I have a mild condition that prevents me from taking hard spirits, but I have been told this is the finest whiskey in these parts. Please, enjoy.”

Artemus pulled a couple of cigars from his vest pocket and offered one to Simon Glendower, “Join me?”

Simon accepted the cigar from the old prospector. He looked at it dubiously wondering how long it had resided in the battered old vest pocket. Artemus guessed his thoughts and forced himself to keep a straight face as he bit of the end and spat it on the ground. “I was a might surprised the store down the street had such fine cigars, but not as surprised as that young lad was when I paid him with a gold piece. His eyes near to bugged out.”

Reassured, the attorney accepted a light and took an appreciative pull on the fragrant cigar. He took a sip of his wine and, again, motioned to the man across from him to try his drink, “Please, enjoy the whiskey, Mr. Connor. How long have you been prospecting in these parts?”

Artemus knew he would not be able to stall taking a drink for much longer. He still had a half finished mug of beer, but it would look suspicious if he avoided the whiskey much longer. He picked up the glass and started to take a sip when he was overcome by a violent coughing fit, his hand grasping the glass jerked spastically over his shoulder showering the floor behind him with alcohol. Artemus kept his hand tightly closed around the now empty glass as he brought it up to his mouth and made as though he took a big swallow to quiet his cough. As soon as he set the empty glass down, Glendower quickly refilled it.

Nodding his thanks to Simon Glendower, Artemus began his tale of trekking through the wild valleys searching for the elusive metal that called to him. He picked up the full glass while he was talking and set it down without drinking, only to pick it up again a few seconds later. He could see Glendower’s smile become tight with annoyance. Clearly he wanted the old prospector to take another swig. Wonder how long I can keep this going before he notices that I haven’t had another drink?

Lady Luck played into Artemus’s hand at that moment. The poker players were becoming increasingly animated and abruptly two rough looking cowboys rose to their feet facing each other. The sudden silence after their shouting match caught Glendower’s attention and he glanced over at the table across the room. Gordon took advantage of the distraction to tip the contents of his glass into the partial mug of beer, then set the glass down on the table with a loud clunk.

“Oh, that’s some mighty fine whiskey you serve, Mr. Glendower. Mighty fine.”

Simon looked back at the agent with a genuine smile, “I am so glad you are enjoying it, Mr. Connor. Now let’s get back to your search. Did you find any other promising sites?”

He’s fishing. He wants to see if I’m becoming susceptible to his suggestions. It’s time to give him what he wants.

“Well, Mr. Glendower, I trust you to be an honest man so I’ll tell you.” Artemus leaned forward and whispered, “I found signs in a valley just a couple of miles from my claim that needs more investigating. Not even five miles southwest of here. Once I get a’goin’ on the one, I plan on checking out the other.”

“That’s right, Mr. Gordon, you can trust me implicitly. A friend of mine would find this information very interesting. You would like to come and discuss this with him wouldn’t you?”

Artemus didn’t blink when Simon Glendower used his correct name, but he felt a tightness in the pit of his stomach. He knows who I am! But Artemus still had one thing in his favor, Glendower was sure Artemus Gordon had drunk enough of the whiskey to make him harmless. I’ll let this play out and see where it leads.

“I’d sure enjoy meeting your friend and discussing it with him,” Artie responded letting his face go slack and his eyes take on a glassy, unfocused look.

“Let’s take a ride out there. It’s just a few miles outside of town. Mr. Young will enjoy hearing about your claim.”

The bartender watched the two men get up and leave the saloon. He grabbed a tray and cleared the table, tightly corking the whiskey bottle. He wasn’t concerned that the well-dressed man hadn’t paid. He knew a nice sum would find its way into his possession by the next evening.

***

As soon as the maid left, Jim West slipped through the door and headed down the empty hall. He made a quick check of the rooms, listening with his ear pressed against the door before carefully opening it just wide enough to look inside. He was looking for an office or den; someplace that Hiram Young would keep his records. The logical place would be on the first floor, but Jim wanted to thoroughly check the upstairs rooms before he ventured to the first floor where he was more likely to encounter servants, and even, perhaps, the owner of the ranch.

The hallway led to a balcony overlooking the entranceway to the house. A grand staircase descended from the balcony to a landing then swept out in a graceful curve to the marbled foyer. A beautifully patterned carpet ran the length of the upstairs hall and continued down the stairs. The heavy mahogany rail that followed the stairs ended in a carved horse head.

From his vantage point on the balcony, Jim could see doors leading off the wide foyer. A set of double doors to the right of the front door he guessed led to the main parlor. To the left of the entrance, a door stood open and Jim could see the main dining hall with its long, brightly polished table and carved chairs. If there was a den or office down there, it was probably directly below him he surmised.

Cautiously, Jim crept down the stairs, keeping low in case someone should walk by. His luck held and he reached the bottom without incident. As he suspected, several doors led off the foyer below the balcony. The second door he tried was locked, but a few seconds was all Jim West needed to pick the lock and slip inside.

Jackpot! he thought as he entered the den of Hiram Young. Bookshelves lined one wall of the dark paneled room. Paintings of western scenes dominated the other walls; a cattle drive, the cowboys partially hidden by dust; a canyon catching the final rays of a setting sun. Jim glanced around the room, his gaze pausing for a moment on a painting of a cougar, crouched on a ledge above a mustang, body tense, ready to spring. Below the painting was a large, inlayed drop-front desk. Again Jim used his picklock to unlock the desk. Just as he started to open the front of the mahogany piece he heard a soft click as a mechanism engaged.

White powder exploded from the desk directly into his face. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket to cover his nose and mouth, but it was too late. He had already inhaled some of the powder which made its way into his system. The room started spinning and he sank to his knees. Darkness closed in quickly and James West pitched forward on the thick Oriental rug.

***

“Very nice, Mr. Glendower,” Hiram Young said dismissing his suave front man with a wave of his hand as he guided Artemus Gordon by the elbow into his den. Michael Jensen, who had met them at the door, accompanied Young and Gordon into the room. “Mr. Gordon, please have a seat. You and I have much to talk about. Surely you would be more comfortable without the beard and mustache.”

Artemus calmly crossed the room and took a seat where Young indicated. He noted that Jensen had taken up a position just to the left of the door. “I’ll be more comfortable without the beard,” he responded placidly as he peeled off the gray streaked beard and mustache.

“You may be interested to know that your inquisitive young partner decided to pay me a visit this afternoon. Some of my men are showing him around a small mine I own just a little way south of here. You’ll be joining him a bit later, after we’ve had our little chat.”

They have Jim! It sounds like they have something unpleasant in store for him, probably for me as well. A nice little mining accident I bet.

Young sat on the arm of a chair facing Artemus Gordon. He crossed his arms as he leaned forward studying the agent’s face intently. After a moment he appeared satisfied that Artemus was fully under the influence of his whiskey and relaxed a bit.

“Now, Mr. Gordon, I asked my friend Mr. Glendower to escort you out here so we could discuss the problems my dear neighbor, Senator Gilmore, is having. In fact, I have asked one of my men to ride over and extend an invitation to the senator to join us. He should be arriving shortly.”

He rose and crossed to his desk where he poured himself a glass of wine from a decanter. “I am sure you would like to tell me about your investigation and anyone you’ve discussed it with.”

Artemus smiled mildly, “My partner had some trouble with some of your men when he came out to see you yesterday. He mentioned a still below the barn...strange place for a still. Senator Gilmore suggested I may be able to pick up some information at the Wooden Duck.” He didn’t mention the poppy seeds Jim had discovered or his conversation with the miner, Jeremiah Watkins.

“The still is unimportant. It is where we make our fine whiskey you so enjoyed. But tell me, did you or Mr. West talk to anyone other than Senator Gilmore? Or telegraph anyone with your information?”

“No, Mr. Young. Mr. West and I don’t make a full report to our superior until a case is finished,” Artemus replied keeping his voice bland. Maybe we should have telegraphed Colonel Richmond so someone would be aware of what’s going on.

A neatly dressed man in his late fifties entered the den quietly. From the description Jim had given him, Artemus guessed that this was one of the men he had followed down the mountain the day before.

Hiram Young turned to look at the newcomer, “Well?”

PT Langstrom hesitated and glanced at Artemus Gordon. He was unsure if he should speak freely in front of the man he correctly assumed was a federal agent.

“Don’t worry about Mr. Gordon here. He sampled some of my fine whiskey. He won’t remember anything after it wears off. Are we ready to ship?” There was nothing pleasant about Hiram Young’s toothy smile.

“Whitaker and Campbell are on their way to the train depot with the crates to be shipped to Washington. When they get there they will telegraph Byron and let him know it’s on its way.” Despite Hiram’s assurances, Langstrom’s discomfort at discussing the plans in Gordon’s presence was obvious.

“Very good. We are on schedule. Another few weeks and I’ll be the one making decisions on how this country should be run.”

Langstrom headed back out the door, but stepped aside when Senator Gilmore was escorted in by Bart Mavis. The senator was clearly confused by the events unfolding around him. He started to turn to speak to Hiram Young, but froze when he saw Artemus sitting in the center of the room slack-jawed and unfocused.

“Mr. Gordon is something wrong?” the senator asked worriedly.

“Senator, Mr. Gordon and I were just discussing his investigation into the problems you have encountered recently. Haven’t we, Mr. Gordon?” Hiram addressed the glassy-eyed agent.

I’ve got to make sure that Gilmore doesn’t let on what we have already found out or mention the poppies or Jeremiah Watkins. “Senator, Mr. Young is concerned about our investigation and is showing Mr. West a mine south of here that maybe connected in some way.” Artemus caught the senator’s eye and shook his head ever so slightly. Hoping that Gilmore would understand the hint, he continued, “Since I haven’t been able to find out anything that pertains to the case, I accepted his invitation to come to the ranch to discuss it in person.”

Looking from one man to the other, the senator frowned slightly, “If you think that’s best, Mr. Gordon. I am willing to follow your lead.”

Young grinned widely, “Excellent! Mr. Gordon, I think the senator should join you in checking out the mine with your partner, don’t you?”

Artemus smiled blandly, “I am sure the senator would like to join us.”

“Mavis and Jensen will take you there,” Young said. “Mavis, did Henry accompany you with the carriage?”

“Yes, sir, he’s outside waiting.”

Interesting that Young should know Gilmore’s butler on a first name basis…but someone must have alerted him to my disguise, Artemus thought.

Soon Paul Gilmore and Artemus Gordon were seated in the senator’s carriage. Jensen, mounted on his palomino, and Mavis on his big bay, took up their positions on either side of the carriage. Henry clucked to the chestnut horse and set off at a brisk trot along the drive leading to the main road.

Artemus leaned back against the seat with his eyes half-closed. Their escorts were several yards away from the carriage, one on each side, and did not appear to be paying close attention to the passengers. Gordon they believed was rendered harmless by the drugged whiskey, and the senator they did not consider a threat partially due to his age, but mostly due to his occupation as a politician and sheep farmer.

“Listen carefully, Senator,” Gordon whispered barely moving his lips.

The senator’s eyebrows shot up, but he managed to hide any other outward sign of surprise. He realized now that Artemus Gordon was fully alert and cognizant of what was going on. He too leaned back against the seat so he could hear the agent.

“They have Mr. West, and they think they have us. Play along, let them think I’m out of it and you’re unwilling to fight. The more they underestimate us, the better our chances,” Artemus continued in a whisper.

“And Henry?” Gilmore asked equally as softly. “You think he’s involved?”

“They knew about my disguise and the claim certificate. Your butler was present for both conversations. I am sorry, Senator, but it does look that way.”

***

[Double Take]

He wasn’t sure how long he had been out, but it wasn’t long enough for his head to clear completely. James West still felt fuzzy and disoriented when he finally managed to open his eyes. He blinked a few times willing his blurred surroundings to come into focus. When they did, he decided things had looked more promising when they were still fuzzy. He was seated on the floor in the center of a small dimly lit cabin with his back against a pot-bellied stove and his wrists lashed to one of its stout iron legs. When he shifted position he discovered his ankles were also tied.

The cabin, which was little more than a shack, was comprised of one room with a cot in a corner, a single armchair under a small window, a sturdy table made of rough planks, a couple of straight-backed chairs and a sink with a hand pump. Whoever had lived in the shack had not been too concerned with creature comforts, but judging by the dust and cobwebs, it had not been inhabited for some time. In fact it appeared to be used for storage now. Picks, shovels and other equipment leaned against the walls or were piled on the bed. More disturbing to Jim West were the crates of dynamite stacked against the wall opposite the window.

A man was carefully feeding a fuse into a crate of dynamite. He trailed the long cord toward the door were he cut it from the spool in his hand. The door opened and a second man stood in the entranceway, clearly unwilling to come into a room full of explosives. “That long enough for us to get well away from here?” he asked nervously.

Billy snorted derisively, “There ain’t nothing to be afraid of, Al. That fuse is plenty long enough. And the dynamite ain’t gonna blow until a match is set to it.”

“You sure we gotta leave his horse here, Billy? He’s a nice looking animal. I wouldn’t mind having him.”

“The horse stays. That way it’ll look like Mr. West here came out on his own. Good thing Bellamy found his horse. Makes it neater,” Billy replied.

Billy looked over his handiwork and then grinned at the bound agent. “You’ll have some friends joining you soon, so you just sit tight,” he said laughing at his own joke. He paused with one hand on the door and looked once again at the agent. “Oh yeah, I took the liberty of removing this little derringer and knife from you jacket. And I am going to enjoy one of these nice cigars you had tucked away.”

“I hope you enjoy them as much as I do. They’re from Havana,” Jim responded pleasantly suppressing a smile. He remembered telling an old bandit almost the same thing.

As soon as the two men left, Jim started working at the ropes that bound him to the stove. The ropes were secure and no amount of twisting could loosen them. There was, however, a rough edge to the cast iron leg. Jim set himself to the painstaking task of rubbing his bonds against the edge, hoping that he could cut through them before his captors returned with a match.

***

Henry turned off the main road onto a track that wended its way through the foothills towards the towering mountains. The track became less and less distinct as it continued southwest. The track crossed a shallow stream then turned and followed it towards its source. It would be dusk soon, and even now the mountains cast long shadows across the area. Another mile and they entered a wooded valley. The stream was a little narrower and deeper here, bubbling along in the shadow of the mountain.

A steep path led from the stream up to a cleared area around a rough wooden cabin. From there a well-worn path continued up the side of the mountain to a small mine. Several lanterns hung from posts along the path and from the shack.

Henry stopped the horse at the base of the path. Three other horses stood in a row tethered to some low bushes. One of them Artemus recognized immediately as Jim’s black. The lantern light glinted off the silver studded saddle and bridle.

Bart Mavis and Michael Jensen drew their guns, dismounted and motioned for the occupants of the carriage to climb out. When Henry showed no sign of surprise at the ranch hands actions, Paul Gilmore had to conclude that the federal agent was correct in his assessment of the butler.

The two men had no choice but to do as they were ordered. Artemus continued to maintain a blank expression while he studied the situation. A third man was approaching from the shack looking over his shoulder nervously. Still one man unaccounted for. Either in the shack or the mine. I’ll place my money on the shack.

Senator Gilmore frowned at the two gunmen, “What is the meaning of this? We came out here to look around at the behest of your employer.” Gilmore turned to his butler, “What do you know of this, Henry? Why are we being held at gunpoint?”

Without responding Henry climbed down and started to unhitch the horse from the carriage. He kept his back to the senator unwilling to meet the eyes of his employer.

“Henry!” Senator Gilmore’s voice gave full vent to his anger. The butler quailed from the senator’s anger and scurried away under the pretense of leading the horse down to the stream for a drink.

Bart Mavis grabbed the senator’s arm and swung him around. With a shove he started the two prisoners walking towards the shack. As they followed the narrow trail, Billy emerged, cigar in hand and sauntered over to the newcomers.

“Al, why don’t you help Bart and Michael get these two comfortable inside,” Billy stuck the cigar in his corner of his mouth while he took the horse’s reins from Mavis and Jensen.

“They can handle it. I ain’t going in that shack again,” Al replied sulkily and stalked off, ignoring Billy’s laughter as he led the horses toward the stream. Billy paused to let Henry pass him with the chestnut carriage horse.

Henry had just finished hitching the young horse back up to the carriage when Billy returned from watering the two horses. The ranch hand tied the palomino and bay next to the other three horses waiting by the path. He walked over to where Henry, clearly ill at ease, stood by the senator’s carriage. The butler kept glancing nervously up the path toward the cabin.

“You know your orders, Henry?” Billy asked.

The butler pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead nervously. “Mr. West met Mr. Gordon and Senator Gilmore and they went into the shack while I waited by the carriage. There was a horrific explosion and I went for help,” he hesitated for a minute. “May...maybe I should head back now,” Henry stammered.

“You’ll wait until we’re ready to leave. Got that?” Billy said sharply to the nervous butler.

He pulled a match from a pocket and bent forward slightly to light his cigar. As Billy straightened up he saw Jensen grab one of the lanterns, then the four men disappear into the shack. He smiled as he puffed on the cigar. Mr. Young’s plans were going smoothly and they would soon be headed back to the ranch. His smile changed to a look of puzzlement as the cigar in his hand suddenly started to hiss and splutter. He stared at it for a moment longer and was just coming to the realization that something was very wrong with it...

***

Jim looked up as the door started to open. He gave a hard yank on his bonds and felt the rope break. There was no time to free his ankles so he remained where he was sitting with his arms behind him.

Michael Jensen entered first and set the lantern on a shelf by the door. He grabbed the senator’s arm and jerked him in the direction of the wood stove. He was just about to order him down when there was the roar of an explosion from the outside the cabin. Startled, Jensen spun around and started for the door. James West took advantage of the distraction and slammed his booted feet into the back of Jensen’s knees, sending the cowboy crashing to the ground. Jim immediately threw himself forward knocking Jensen’s gun out of reach. He levered himself up on his knees just as Jensen twisted around and threw a punch at the agent. Jim easily blocked the blow with his arm. He reached forward and grabbed Jensen by the collar, pulling him up, and driving his right fist into the man’s jaw. Michael Jensen went limp and Jim let him fall back to the ground.

Behind him, Jim heard a grunt as his partner drove his elbow into Bart Mavis’ ribs. Mavis fell back against the doorframe, shaking the wall and knocking the lantern to the floor. His gun flew from his grip and skittered underneath the cot. The sudden dousing of the light did not slow the mountain of a man, and with an animal growl he launched himself back at the dark-haired agent. Artemus sidestepped neatly, extending his foot into the path of the onrushing man. As Mavis stumbled, Artemus struck him lightly between the shoulder blades sending him face first into the dirt floor next to Jensen. Despite his bound feet, Jim made a grab for Mavis intending on finishing what Artemus had started. Fast as lightning, Bart Mavis flipped himself on his back and brought his hand up in time to block Jim’s punch.

Jim felt the big man’s hands close on his throat before he could deflect them. Bart tightened his grip. With a powerful yank he pulled the agent forward as he brought his feet up against Jim’s mid-section and flipped him over his head. Jim slammed into the sturdily built table struggling to breathe, his already bruised ribs on fire.

In a second Bart was on his feet and turned to face Artemus, primal hatred burned in his eyes. With sweep of his hand he knocked the senator out of his way and advanced on the agent who had tripped him. Artemus dove to grab Mavis’ revolver from under the cot. Just as his fingers closed on the grip, the behemoth’s foot plowed into his ribs. The air was driven from Gordon’s lungs with an audible whoosh, but he somehow managed to keep his grip on the pistol. Mavis grabbed the agent by the collar and started to pull him to his feet simultaneously drawing a knife from his belt.

A shot rang out and Mavis froze with his hand on the knife’s hilt. A look of surprise momentarily crossed his face before he pitched forward face down on the cot.

Artemus looked over at his partner leaning against the leg of the table, Jensen’s pistol in hand. It was then that the men realized their danger. The lantern had fallen from the shelf when Artemus had shoved Mavis against the door jam, and now the flames were spreading rapidly. The fuse leading to the dynamite was already burning, but the fire was traveling faster and was going to reach the dynamite long before the fuse ignited it. Artemus stuck the revolver into his belt, grabbed a rusty knife from the bed and threw it to his partner.

“Artie, get the senator out of here!” Jim yelled, catching the knife and attacking the ropes that bound his ankles.

The doorway was blocked by flames and even if it hadn’t been, it led straight into the sights of the men waiting outside. Artemus took the only route that remained open to him...the window. He tore the ratty curtains aside and smashed the glass with the butt of his gun. He grabbed the senator and pushed him toward the window. The senator did not hesitate; he stepped onto the seat of the armchair and leapt through the window. Artemus glanced back at his partner and saw that he had sliced through his bonds and was already getting to his feet. Without further hesitation he followed the senator through the window and landed just a few feet from the older man. Artemus was on his feet instantly pulling the senator up and urging him away from the burning shack.

Jim heard the glass shatter and his partner urging the senator out the window. The knife he was using was rusty and dull, but Jim felt the ropes around his ankles finally give way. The senator was already out of the window with Artemus close behind him. Jim glanced at the dynamite and saw the first flames begin to lick the crates. He didn’t wait any longer. He hit the chair at a run and used it to springboard through the window. Jim hit the ground with his shoulder, and even before he stopped rolling, Artie was pulling him to his feet. The two men ran hard, putting as much distance between themselves and the shack as they could.

One minute the cabin was there, flames licking at the walls and window, then it was gone, disintegrated by the exploding dynamite. The force of the explosion knocked the agents flat against the ground. They felt the heat of the fire against their backs and debris rained down around them.

The two agents scrambled to their feet. Jim spotted Senator Gilmore peeking around the trunk of a stout tree.

“Artie, stay with the senator. Follow the path and then work your way around to the horses,” West said motioning Artemus to take the path that led to the mine.

“What about you?” Artemus asked.

“I’m going to get my cigars back,” Jim replied with a slight grin.

***

Henry had been standing by the nervous carriage horse stroking the animal’s neck as much to soothe himself as the young horse when the cigar exploded. Gagging, he turned away from the grizzly sight. He grabbed the chestnut’s reins and tried to back up the frightened horse so he could get the carriage turned around. He had no intention of waiting for the others.

Spooked by the exploding cigar the chestnut horse sidestepped and pranced nervously as the butler struggled to manage him. Just as Henry was thinking he had the horse under control, the dynamite in the cabin exploded. The high-strung horse lunged forward, his powerful chest striking the butler and knocking him to the ground. A hoof connected solidly with the man’s head.

The debris raining down was too much for the carriage horse. When an ember struck him, he bolted in panic oblivious to the inert form at his feet. The carriage careened wildly as its spoke wheels bounced over Henry’s body.

***

When the cigar exploded, Al had rushed forward to help Billy. However, there was nothing to be done. He spotted Gilmore’s butler trying to leave and yelled at him to stop, but his voice was drowned out by the second, louder explosion. Al instinctively dropped to the ground and covered his head. When he looked up he stared open-mouthed at the remains of the shattered cabin.

He knew that no one could have survived that explosion, but Al took a deep breath and drew his gun. He needed to check it out so he could report everything that had happened to his employer. Slowly, with trepidation at what he would find, Al started up the path toward the cabin. He didn’t see the blue clad figure step out from the woods behind him.

“You just hold it right there…now drop your gun,” James West ordered, cocked revolver in hand and leveled at the young cowhand.

Al let his gun fall from his fingers and slowly raised his hands keeping them away from his body. He turned to face West, the lantern light reflected off the beads of sweat gathering on his forehead.

A dead pine tree near the cabin crackled and burned. Weakened by the explosion, it toppled to the ground landing in the clearing once occupied by the cabin. Jim glanced up at the burning tree and noticed the fire was beginning to spread.

Fear and desperation gave the young cowboy a speed that Jim West did not anticipate. Al took advantage of the West’s momentary distraction and threw himself backward against the agent, knocking the gun from his hand. Al spun around and landed a hard blow against the agent’s jaw. Jim staggered, but did not go down. Al took the opportunity to make a break for the horses.

He yanked the reins free of the first horse in line, Michael Jensen’s palomino, and swung into the saddle, urging the animal into a gallop as soon as his right foot cleared the horse’s back. Jim reached the tethered horses a moment later. He ducked under the neck of a big rangy bay and nimbly leapt onto Blackjack’s back. Jim turned the horse to follow the fleeing rider. The fiery black needed no urging; his powerful hind quarters bunched beneath him as he launched himself forward and stretched out into a full gallop.

Senator Gilmore and Artemus emerged from the woods in time to see Jim catch up to the fleeing cowboy. Jim gathered himself for the leap, hesitated momentarily to steady himself, and then sprang across the gap, grabbing the young ranch hand and pulling him down. The two men crashed to the ground with Jim on top. Jim rolled with the agility of a cat and was on his feet ready to take on the hapless cowboy.

Jim straightened up and stood shaking his head. The ranch hand was still flat on his back struggle to breathe after having the wind knocked out of him. Jim grabbed Al by his coat and pulled him to his feet. He shoved him in the direction of the mine and whistled for Blackjack. The horse obligingly trotted over followed by the palomino.

“You all right, James?” Artie asked as the agent and his prisoner walked up.

“Junior here cushioned my landing,” Jim replied with a wry grin.

“Young is shipping the crates of whiskey out tonight, or maybe tomorrow morning. Headed for Washington. We need to stop them. Apparently he has an accomplice there. As powerful as that whiskey is, he could influence the decisions of some very important men,” Artemus said filling Jim in on the conversation he had witnessed at Young’s ranch. All the while, he kept his gun aimed at the young cowboy.

“Did you get a name? We can have agents in Washington pick him up,” Jim asked.

“Byron. That’s all. I don’t know if it was his surname or given name. Just Byron,” Artie replied with a frown.

Jim handed the reins of Blackjack and the palomino to Senator Gilmore while he considered their next move. The young agent walked over to the tethered horses and gathered up their reins. The animals were snorting and fidgeting nervously as the fire continued to crackle and burn a little way up the path. He led the skittish animals away from the wooded area back to where his partner and the senator were waiting.

“Let’s get back to the senator’s place. We’ll lock up Junior here on the train. Young isn’t likely to send anyone out to check on the mine until tomorrow. Even then, it may be a while before he realizes that his men failed to kill the three of us. By then we should have located the whiskey. We switch it out for regular stuff, and have some agents in Washington pick up whoever claims it,” Jim outlined his plan.

“Then once the whiskey’s on its way, we pick up Young,” Artemus concluded with a satisfied grin. “Nice.”

The ride back to the Wanderer seemed much longer than the trip out to the mine. It was now fully dark and the moon would not rise for another hour or so. The men had to travel slowly; the track they followed was merely a faint silvery ribbon against the darker vegetation. Senator Gilmore, because of his familiarity with the general area, led the way with Artemus riding beside him on the palomino leading the extra horse. Jim followed on Blackjack holding the reins of Al’s mount. The prisoner sat slumped shouldered in the saddle. His hands were bound behind him, all hope of escape gone.

A couple of miles from the mine they came across the senator’s horse and carriage. The chestnut gelding had run himself out and finally stopped. Now he calmly lifted his head and whinnied at the approaching horses. Senator Gilmore swung down from his borrowed mount and looked over the lathered young chestnut for injuries. Satisfied that the horse was sound, he checked the harness straps and traces, then the carriage for signs of damage. Other than a broken rein, which was easily repaired, everything appeared to be in order. The senator tied the extra horses to the back of the carriage, climbed into the seat and fell in behind Gordon.

It was nearly midnight by the time they reached the Wanderer. Jim took his charge to the stable car and locked him securely away. Then they accompanied the senator back to his farm.

A welcoming light shone from the downstairs windows of the senator’s residence and several lanterns burned in the courtyard. Herb Smith appeared almost immediately as the senator drove up. Like other members of the staff, he had been worried about his employer and was still awake despite the late hour. He held the horse’s reins as Paul Gilmore climbed stiffly from the carriage, clearly exhausted from the eventful evening.

“Is everything all right, Senator? We were getting concerned,” Smith asked. Looking over the group he frowned, puzzled by the extra horses. Suddenly he realized that there was one man missing from the party. “Where’s Henry?”

“Take care of the horses, Herb.” The senator sighed tiredly, “Henry won’t be coming back. I will talk to the staff tomorrow.”

Smith nodded and led the horse and carriage to the barn. Jim followed him with the spare horses, leaving Artemus to escort Senator Gilmore into the house. As Smith unhitched the chestnut gelding from the carriage he studied the government agent unsaddling the other horses. Jim’s clothes were dusty and more than a little worse for wear. Smith had no idea what had transpired that day, but he realized his initial assessment of the two agents as dandies was off the mark. He was sure the palomino in the courtyard belonged to Michael Jensen from the Circle Y Ranch. Clearly these federal men knew how to handle themselves in a tough situation.

“Mr. West.”

Jim paused as he pulled the saddle off the big bay.

“The senator is a good man. A good man to work for. A good man to represent us in Washington,” Smith hesitated. “I was real worried when he went off with Young’s man. I know you can’t tell me what happened tonight, but…well, I just want to thank you for looking out for him.”

A slight smile played over the agent’s lips, “Senator Gilmore and President Grant are close friends. I would’ve hated to explain to the President that I misplaced his friend.”

***

The senator was sitting in his den with a drink in hand when James West walked in. Artemus poured another snifter of brandy and handed it to his partner. The senator sat staring at his glass emotionally drained by the events of the last two days. Jim glanced at Artemus who shook his head slightly. The two agents waited patiently for a few minutes to let the senator gather himself.

Finally, Paul Gilmore looked up at the Secret Services agents the President had sent to help him. It was less than forty-eight hours ago that they had ridden into his courtyard. So much had happened since then, but Senator Gilmore had been elected to his office because of his strength of character and sense of justice. Now he pulled on that inner strength; he took a deep breath and a swallow of the fragrant alcohol.

“What can I do to help you, gentlemen?” he asked, his voice firm despite his exhaustion.

“Our next task is to intercept Young’s whiskey. Do you have an idea where he would ship it from?” Jim asked.

“There’s no train due through Longmont for a few days,” Gilmore replied slowly. “If I wanted something shipped sooner than that I would send it by wagon to Fort Collins which is on the main line. That’s less than a day’s ride from here and those trains run more frequently than they do on this spur.”

“Senator, can the local sheriff be trusted,” Artemus asked guessing Jim’s line of thinking.

“I have known Sheriff Coleman for many years…yes, I trust him. What do you need?”

Jim paced the short distance between the settee and the door while he thought. “Stay out of sight as much as possible, but contact the sheriff and have him check just to make sure the whiskey is not being shipped from right here in Longmont. As soon as it is light we will take the train to Fort Collins. Young’s men will have to stop for the night, we should be able to intercept them before they reach Fort Collins. Once we have the whiskey, we will telegraph the sheriff to pick up Young.”

“What…what about Henry and the others?” the senator asked taking a last swallow of his drink.

“I am sorry, Senator, but we can’t tip our hand and let Young know that the three of us survived his little plot,” Artemus said gently. “When you talk to your staff in the morning, make sure they understand the need for secrecy. The longer it takes Young to figure out that he failed to get rid of us, the better our chances are at successfully intercepting the cargo.”

There was a rap at the door to the den. Jim opened it to find Herb Smith clutching his hat, clearly concerned about he well being of his employer.

“I came to see if you need anything, Senator.”

“Thank you, Herb. Mr. West and Mr. Gordon will be leaving soon. Please gather the staff first thing in the morning so I can talk to them.”

“Will do, sir,” Smith, nodded and headed back to the front door.

******************************************************************************

Early the next morning found the Wanderer headed north at a good clip. The agents anticipated arriving in Fort Collins before Hiram Young’s men. They telegraphed ahead to have two crates of whiskey standing by at the train station so they could switch out the drugged alcohol. They had also learned that the next train headed east would not leave until 3:00 PM that day which was more than enough time for them to put their plan into action.

The agents wanted to make the switch before Young’s men arrived in town. Artemus had never seen either ranch hand, but Whitaker’s face was burned into the memory of James West. Artemus had seen the flicker of anger in his partner’s eyes when he mentioned the names of the two men Young had sent north with the whiskey.

There was really only one route that Young’s men could take, so after borrowing a delivery wagon from a local bakery, West and Gordon picked up the crates of whiskey and headed south to intercept their targets.

Jim, mounted on Blackjack, rode out well ahead of his partner. He stayed on the main road for a couple of miles, then turned and headed off the road angling up a steep ridge that ran parallel to it. From the ridge he could see several miles in each direction. A small, enclosed wagon, emblazoned with Gruber’s Bakery on its side and pulled by a grey cob, ambled along the road heading south. Jim pulled out his telescope and studied the driver who was dressed in a non-descript grey suit. A dark handlebar mustache and goatee adorned the man’s face which was shaded from the rising sun by a bowler hat.

The driver of the bakery wagon studied the road in front of him. A glint of light coming from the top of the ridge to his right caught his attention. He squinted and made out a blue clad figure on a horse, the sunlight reflected off something the man was holding. Artemus reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a bright blue handkerchief and mopped his brow. There was a brief flash of light from the ridge and the rider disappeared over the crest.

Jim continued his journey south for a few more miles keeping the ridge between him and the road. Every so often he would dismount and climb to the top of the ridge, lying flat on the ground while he studied the comings and goings on the road. Not only was he looking for the men from the Circle Y Ranch, he was also looking for a place where he could put into action the plan that he and Artemus had outlined.

The road connecting Fort Collins to Longmont was not too heavily traveled, but had enough traffic that Jim and Artie decided that they wanted to force Hiram Young’s men off the road. About ten miles south of Fort Collins Jim came across a break in the ridge where a stream fed by the mountain snows had eroded a defile and created a fairly wide, flat opening. The shallow stream then crossed the road and meandered across the plains until it petered out, swallowed up by the prairie. This looked like the perfect spot to put their plan into action. The defile would allow them to get the wagon out of sight, switch out the whiskey and then continue on without anyone the wiser, but it would require precise timing.

Blackjack splashed through the cold water. Once on the other side, Jim left the horse tied to a cottonwood tree and climbed the ridge again. As there was still no sign of Young’s men, Jim decided to risk taking the road north and meeting up with his partner to fill him in on what he had in mind.

Jim let Blackjack stretch out into a gallop. They covered the distance back to the slower moving delivery wagon in short order. The black horse had a light sheen of sweat on his neck and chest when Jim reined him in next to the wagon.

“See anything of interest?” Artemus asked mildly tipping his hat to his partner in greeting. He rapped his knuckles against a small sliding partition behind him. A young spectacled face peered out of the opening and gave the two agents a toothy grin.

“Have you spotted them yet, Mr. West?” the young agent asked eagerly.

“Not yet, Dick,” Jim replied. Richard was young and energetic, not long out of the academy, and happened to be in Fort Collins when Artemus had telegraphed requesting the crates of whiskey. Richard readily agreed to help when the two experienced agents decided they could use an extra hand to drive the delivery wagon back into town.

“About three miles up ahead the road bends in a wide curve just before a stream crosses it. Hang back until I signal you that Young’s men are approaching. You should be able to completely block the ford with the wagon. We’ll take them there and get the wagons out of sight. After we switch out the whiskey, Richard can take our charges in this wagon and deposit them with the sheriff.”

“Oh, I’ll do it, Mr. West, you can be sure of that! But are you sure they’ll be coming this way? Shouldn’t we develop a more detailed plan?” Richard asked excitedly.

“Richard, you learn in the field that nothing is ever a certainty, just a probability. Keep your plans simple; they’re likely to change at any moment,” Artemus intoned and glanced at his partner with amusement. Neither man felt affronted by the young agent’s questions. He still had a lot to learn about field work.

Jim had been holding his antsy black horse to a collected trot next to the slow, steady pace of the grey cob pulling the wagon, now he gave the animal his head and galloped back the way he had come. After a few hundred yards, he slowed a bit then angled off the road. He crested the ridge and dropped out of sight.

Twenty minutes after he took up a position where he could watch the road from the ridge a mile or so south of the stream, a farm wagon pulled by a pair of bay horses came into view. From where Jim was lying flat on his stomach, shielded from the road by a convenient boulder, he could see several miles in both directions, but the gentle curve limited the view from the road. He studied the driver through his telescope for a minute, but there was no doubt in his mind. He recognized Glen Whitaker though he had not seen the other ranch hand before. The crates of whiskey were not visible, but Jim was certain they would find them hidden underneath the tarp covering the bed of the wagon.

Jim shifted his position so the boulder was completely shielding him from the south then pulled a small mirror from his jacket pocket. The sun caught the reflective surface and flashed across the sturdy rump of the gray horse hitched to the delivery wagon. Artemus looked up and spotted the flashing mirror. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow even though he wasn’t sweating.

Artemus reached back and rapped on the sliding panel, “Heads up, Richard, we’re moving.”

Gordon released the brake and clucked to the horse. The gray cob leaned into his harness and, after a few steps, broke into trot. They reached the stream as the northbound wagon driven by Whitaker rounded the curve and came into view. The cob balked at crossing the stream. Not because he didn’t like the water, but because his driver was pulling back on the reins while simultaneously tapping him lightly on the rump with a buggy whip. When Gordon released the reins, the horse lunged forward sending up a spray of water that drenched both horse and driver. When they were almost across the shallow stream Artemus engaged the brake, stopping the horse and wagon. He was now effectively blocking the ford where the shallow bank of the stream had been graded to allow wagons to pass easily. He jumped down from the wagon and tried to lead the horse across the stream, cajoling the confused animal to take a few more steps.

The Circle Y wagon was now less than a hundred yards from the stream. Glen Whitaker and Tom Campbell shook their heads and laughed at antics of the incompetent driver splashing around in the stream. When Gordon did not appear to be making much progress, Whitaker looked around for another place where the slope of the bank was gentle enough for his wagon to cross. About a hundred feet to his left he noticed a spot that was occasionally used to ford the stream.

As soon as Artemus saw Whitaker turn toward the gap in the ridge, he returned to the driver’s seat, released the brake and urged the horse up the gentle slope out of the water. He left the wagon blocking the path Whitaker had taken off the road. A quick rap to the panel behind him alerted his passenger to move out. Gordon drew his revolver and jumped lightly to the ground. The flash of blue on the far side of Whitaker’s wagon indicated that Jim was moving into position as well. Meanwhile, Richard dashed back across the stream and ducked behind a large rock, fumbling for his pistol.

The horses spooked when James West suddenly leapt out from behind a boulder almost directly in their path. Whitaker was equally as surprised by the agent’s sudden appearance, but there was no moment of indecision from him. He slapped the reins hard against the horses’ rumps and, with a shout, drove them forward directly at the agent.

Tom Campbell hung onto the bench with one hand and drew his gun with the other. Looking back he spotted Artemus Gordon approaching from the rear and fired at him. The jostling wagon threw off his aim, but it still forced Gordon to duck behind a tree for cover.

Jim dived out of the way of the onrushing horses. He rolled and fired off a shot just missing Campbell. Jim sprang to his feet; in a couple of strides he was even with Whitaker and grabbed hold of the side of the wagon. Whitaker kicked at the agent trying to dislodge him, but could not go for his gun without letting go of the reins and losing control of the horses. His foot connected with Jim’s right hand and sent his revolver spinning out of his grip. Another stride and Jim swung himself into the back of the wagon. Campbell turned to fire at him, but Jim grabbed his arm and yanked him backward into the bed of the wagon. A left hook to the man’s jaw sent him sprawling to the ground, the rear wheels of the wagon narrowly missing him.

Glen Whitaker hauled back on the reins and reached for his gun. Jim threw himself at the man and they landed in a heap in the stream. Jim was on his feet so fast he barely felt the cold water. Whitaker came up swinging, but Jim side stepped easily and landed a blow to the cowboy’s kidney. Whitaker doubled over in pain and Jim moved in to deliver a last knock-out blow. As he grabbed the ranch hand’s collar, Whitaker slashed upward with a bowie knife he had drawn from his boot. Jim’s lightning fast reflexes saved him from being gutted, but the tip of the sharp blade sliced through his shirt leaving a red stain at the edges of the rent.

Jim’s face tightened in anger and his green eyes filled with ice. From where Artemus stood with one foot resting lightly on Campbell’s mid-section, it looked like the fight was going take a serious turn. Artie recognized the look on his partner’s face and knew Whitaker was in for a serious beating unless he went down quickly.

Across the stream a worried looking Richard stood holding the heads of the bays which had bolted across the stream when their driver dropped the reins. Richard looked to Gordon for direction, unsure if he should remain where he was or aid Jim West. Artemus caught his eye and understood the novice agent’s uncertainty. He smiled and shook his head; Jim didn’t need or want help.

The kick caught Glen Whitaker totally by surprise, even though he had seen Jim try the same move against Bart Mavis less than two days before. The knife flew from his hand and landed in the stream ten feet away. Whitaker did not have a chance to go after it; as soon as the knife was out of his opponent’s hand, Jim stepped in to deliver the blow that had been thwarted seconds before. Whitaker managed to block the punch and drove his fist into the agent’s belly. Normally, that blow would have barely fazed Jim, but he was still sore from his previous encounter with Young’s men. Bent double, he took a step back. This time it was Whitaker who thought he would deliver the final blow. He clutched the agent’s leather lapel and drew his fist back, but as he did so Jim grabbed a hold of his arm and fell backward, planting both feet in the other’s mid-riff and flipping the cowboy over his head.

Both men were on their feet again, almost simultaneously. Whitaker went on the offensive again forcing Jim to take a step back while he blocked the blows. Jim’s heel came down on a loose rock, smoothed and rounded by the action of the stream. It shifted under his weight. Off balance, Jim was unable to deflect the next blow and Whitaker’s fist collided with the agent’s jaw. For a second, blackness enveloped Jim and he fell backward. As soon as the agent went down, Whitaker threw himself on top of him, using his knee to pin him down. He clutched Jim’s neck and forced his head under water.

Jim’s lungs burned; he had already been breathing hard when he went down, now what little air that had been in his lungs was gone. No amount of twisting could free him of the weight on his chest. Jim knew he had to move fast if he was going to survive. He brought his clenched hands up as hard as he could and felt them connect solidly with Whitaker’s chin. That broke the cowboy’s grip on his throat, but did not ease the weight from his chest. Jim threw everything he had into one final punch that landed squarely on his attacker’s jaw. The force of the blow threw Whitaker backward off the agent. Jim struggled to his feet, water streaming off his body. He stood for a moment, shoulders hunched, hands on his knees, as he sucked air into his lungs. His breathing sounded as loud as a freight train in his ears.

During the fight Artemus had dragged his prisoner to his feet and shoved him roughly in the direction of his delivery wagon. He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket and cuffed Campbell to a spoke of the rear wheel. He turned to check how his partner was doing and saw Jim go down in the stream with the ranch hand on top. He glanced across the water and saw Richard take a step forward his eyes wide with concern. Artemus also started toward the stream, but just as he was getting worried, Whitaker flew backward and landed face down in the stream. Artemus waded into the stream and grabbed the cowboy by the shirt. He dragged the limp form to the water’s edge. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that his partner would recover.

The cowboy was coming around coughing and spluttering when Jim joined them on the bank of the stream. He dropped to the ground tiredly, combing his fingers through his wet hair.

“You all right?” Artemus asked.

Jim pulled at the rent in his shirt. “Just a scratch,” he shrugged.

“Boy, Mr. West, I thought for a moment you were a goner, but you sure handled him!” Richard gushed as he slogged through the water.

At Gordon’s bidding, Richard retrieved another set of handcuffs from the delivery wagon. A few minutes later the prisoners were securely locked inside. Richard drove the delivery wagon back across the stream and stopped it next to Young’s wagon.

Artemus pulled back the tarp to reveal two wooden crates in the back of the Circle Y wagon. He grabbed one while his partner picked up the other and set them next to the crates of legitimate whiskey they had brought from Fort Collins.

Artemus opened one of the bottles of drugged whiskey and poured its contents into a small flask he pulled from his inside pocket. Jim frowned at him.

“Should I be worried,” he asked his friend.

Artemus’s brown eyes sparkled with amusement, “Just want to run a few tests with it. Who knows, maybe I’ll win our next round of poker.”

Richard looked up in consternation from where he was pouring out the drugged whiskey, “I’m not sure the department would approve of that kind of testing, Mr. Gordon.”

The two senior agents laughed and continued to empty the unmarked whiskey bottles and refill them with the non-drugged alcohol. As soon as all the bottles were refilled, they resealed the crates. They loaded the empty ones in the back of the delivery wagon and the full ones were replaced under the tarp in the back of the farm wagon.

“They won’t give you any trouble, Dick. Take them straight to the sheriff. We’ll meet you there once we see our cargo safely on its way to Washington,” Jim said after he checked to make sure the prisoners were still secure in the back of the wagon.

Richard clucked to the cob and turned onto the road. Before long he disappeared out of sight around the bend.

The pair of bay horses stood patiently waiting with the cart, which was now adorned with Jim’s jacket, along with Artie’s, hanging out to dry. Jim peeled off his soaked shirt and threw it in the back of the wagon. The shallow cut across his chest had stopped bleeding and the bruises on his ribs and abdomen were just beginning to fade from purple to yellow.

Artemus approached dusting off Jim’s hat, Jim’s revolver tucked in his gun belt. He shook his head at the sight of his shirtless partner, “I think a protective vest should be standard ware for you.”

Jim didn’t bother to reply. He knew that Artie also sported a nice bruise from where the behemoth, Bart Mavis, had kicked him the evening before.

Blackjack appeared as soon as Jim whistled for him. The horse had remained out of sight where Jim had left him before the encounter with Tom Campbell and Glen Whitaker. Jim pulled a clean shirt from the horse’s saddle bag and slipped it on. He wished he had dry pants and boots, but the shirt would have to do. At least my hat and gun are dry, though the gun will need a good cleaning later, he thought as he quickly checked over the revolver before slipping it into his damp holster.

Ten minutes later they were jogging northward along the road toward Fort Collins. Artemus driving the farm wagon, and Jim, mounted on Blackjack, following close behind.

A search of Whitaker had brought to light a piece of paper on which was neatly written the name and address of a man who lived just outside of Washington, Byron Hanks from Welby. On the same piece of paper was a message to be telegraphed to Hanks, which included the approximate arrival time of the merchandise, but no additional instructions.

Artemus and Jim now put the final phase of their plan into action. They shipped the whiskey on the next eastbound train as Hiram Young had originally planned. Then they telegraphed Young’s Washington contact, Byron Hanks, with the message written on the paper. With everything in place with the shipment, the agents met up with Richard at the sheriff’s office and had him telegraph the sheriff in Longmont to arrest Hiram Young.

Later that afternoon from their private railroad car, West and Gordon sent an additional telegraph to Colonel Richmond’s office in Washington with Byron Hanks’ name and address. A short time later, they received a reply from Colonel Richmond. Jeremy Pike, among others, would keep Hanks under surveillance and try to determine how he was going to introduce the drugged whiskey into political circles. When Hanks took possession of the whiskey, the Secret Service would move in and arrest him.

***

It was mid-morning when the train slowed to a stop, resuming its position on the siding near the senator’s place. When West and Gordon knocked at the senator’s door, a dark-haired boy answered; a smile split his face from ear-to-ear when he recognized the secret agents.

“Mr. West, Mr. Gordon, sir! Senator Gilmore said you would be arriving sometime today. He said you’d make them men that killed my dad pay for it. And you did,” the boy beamed at the two men standing in the doorway. Though he would never admit it, Carlos had been hanging around the front of the house doing chores hoping to be there when the agents arrived.

Artemus returned the boy’s smile, “Can we come in, Carlos? We need to talk to the senator.”

“I...I’m sorry, sir. Uh, why don’t you wait in the drawing room and I’ll get the senator,” Carlos stammered pointing to a doorway off the foyer, then disappeared in search of Senator Gilmore.

A few minutes later Paul Gilmore entered and shook hands with the two agents. “I am pleased to report that Sheriff Coleman and his deputies arrested Hiram Young yesterday afternoon at his ranch.”

“Did they have any problems?” Jim asked.

Senator Gilmore smiled slyly, “No, apparently the most dangerous of Young’s hired guns were inexplicably missing. They did, however, also arrest a PT Langstrom who was apparently in charge of the distillery.”

“What about my smooth talking friend, Simon Glendower?” Artemus asked.

“Ah, now there is one piece of bad news. No one has seen hide nor hair of Mr. Glendower since your encounter with him, Mr. Gordon. I don’t know how he found out, but his home had been cleaned of all his personal possessions.”

“I suspect Mr. Glendower had means of getting information from many sources. Who knows, we may encounter him again some time,” Artemus said with a shrug. Though deeply involved in the original scam with the miners, neither agent considered him to be as much of a threat to the security of the nation as Young and Langstrom.

“Senator, Mr. Gordon and I are going to go up and take care of the poppy fields. The plants need to be destroyed or someone may get the idea to restart the operation somewhere else,” West said as he and his partner headed toward the door. “We will stop in and see you before we leave the area.”

***

Artemus gazed in awe at the fields of flowers growing in the caldera of the ancient volcano. “With the path as well hidden as it is, it’s amazing that anyone found this place,” he said.

“Looks like the caretakers took off when they found out their boss was arrested,” Jim commented pointing to the small shack with its door hanging open.

A quick check revealed no signs of life. The stove in the shack was cold and the draws of the few pieces of furniture were hanging open as if the occupants had grabbed their belongings and left in a hurry. In one corner of the building were several sacks of dried flower heads waiting to be taken down the mountain. While Jim checked the single roomed cabin for any identifying items, his partner set a timed incendiary device next to the sacks.

The men left the shack and continued around the perimeter of the shallow bowl, planting incendiary bombs where they could do the most damage. They intended to make sure the fire burned the bowl clean of its dangerous flora. The last two bombs Artemus set underneath the laden drying racks.

The agents stood at the head of the path and watched as first one and then the next bomb exploded in sequence around the perimeter of the basin. The flames quickly spread consuming the fields of poppies. Soon a black cloud of smoke rose above the old volcano.

It only took a few minutes for the two men to descend the narrow cleft and regain the flat shelf where they had left the horses. As they followed the trail down the rugged mountain, Artemus looked back toward the summit. The smoke rose high above the blunt peak. There was a faint orange glow reflected from the bottom of the dark cloud of smoke.

“Almost looks like the old volcano has come back to life,” he commented a little wistfully.

Jim shook his head, “Nobody would believe that. Locals probably don’t even know it is an extinct volcano. They’ll just think the smoke’s from a forest fire.”

The ground suddenly shuddered from a mild tremor. The horses froze, standing splay-legged until the ground stopped shaking a few seconds later. Their eyes showed white with fear, but, being the mounts of James West and Artemus Gordon, they had been through many strange experiences and did not panic. The riders talked calmly to soothe their nervous mounts and urged them back down the trail.

Artemus snorted, “You better watch what you say, James, my boy! There may be life yet in that old volcano.”


the end